


bad timing (the clock ticks in spite of us)

by meekinheritance



Category: Deadpool - All Media Types, Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man - All Media Types, Spider-Man: Homecoming (2017)
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, Assassins & Hitmen, BAMF Peter Parker, Banter, Canon-Typical Violence, Crimes & Criminals, Depression, Eventual Romance, Everyone Has Issues, False Accusations, Family, Fluff and Angst, Friendship, Gen, Humor, Implied/Referenced Child Abuse, Law Enforcement, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Mentioned Skip Westcott, Panic Attacks, Peter Parker Needs a Hug, Peter Parker has ADHD, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Precious Peter Parker, Protective Jack Hammer, Protective Wade Wilson, Recreational Drug Use, Sarcasm, Secret Identity, Superfamily, Trans Male Character, Trans Peter Parker, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Wade Wilson Needs A Hug
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-02-24
Updated: 2019-03-14
Packaged: 2019-11-04 18:42:08
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 27,197
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17903480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/meekinheritance/pseuds/meekinheritance
Summary: Framed for a felony drug charge while vying for an internship at Stark Industries, Peter Parker loses his scholarship, job opportunities, six months of freedom, and faith in the criminal justice system.Although Peter is still secretly Spider-man, he is now more commonly known as Mouse, a dishwasher at NYC's Hellhouse and Weasel’s unofficial messenger boy.We do what we must.





	1. bad break

**Author's Note:**

> for anyone not familiar, in the comics, Weasel (Jack Hammer) was actually on the same path as Peter Parker and Gwen Stacy, until he was framed for a drug crime and his life spiraled. he's older than peter in this fic so it's not quite the same, except for the false allegation. i'm pulling from multiple canons, as we do, because reasons involving laziness and creative flow. ultimately I wanted Peter to be stuck on the wrong side of the law, while also being Spider-man and trying to do good.
> 
> this will obviously be Spideypool eventually, featuring some elements of 'superfamily' later and a kind of mentor!Weasel thing going on. first chapter is in his pov, the rest will probably be peter's or wade's.
> 
> this will be grittier than my other fic, but still have plenty of humor and sweetness too. hope you enjoy~

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> weasel just wants to go back to bed

“Got a job for you,” Weasel says as soon as Wade picks up the phone, no preamble.

 

“Yay!” Wade squeals, way too much falsetto for this early in the morning. “What’s it pay? Is it fun? Who’s the client?”

 

“Nada, nope, and me.”

 

“Whaaaat? I’ll give you the bestie discount.  _Comrade Coupon? Main Man Markdown_? Nah, now I’m trying too hard. Anyway, what do you need me to do? Did someone cheat you outta somethin’? Do they need to die or just a booty beatin’?”

 

“No, it - wait, booty beatin’?” Weasel is sickened and amused, as he often is while talking to Wade. “Fuck, man, just say ass kicking, what is wrong with you?”

 

“You know how much is wrong with me, it’s just rude to ask me to make a list when you  _know_ how I feel about lists. I was just trying something new.”

 

It’s kind of funny, but Weasel is obligated to give Wade a hard time about everything.

 

“Sounds like a beanie baby is going around committing adorable yet disturbing violence, and no one wants that, Wade. Not a single person.”

 

“Really? You can’t think of  _anyone_  that might be into that?”

 

Weasel leans against the stainless steel prep table, thoughtful.

 

“Maybe someone with some kind of yandere-agalmato-guro fetish, but you’re distracting me from my original point, damn you.”

 

“Right! Your job! Who do I gotta take care of?”

 

“The dishes,” Weasel glances at the pile of them, then clarifies. “At Hellhouse.”

 

Wade is quiet for several seconds, then sounds way too chipper to be taking this seriously.

“I haveta say, I wasn’t expecting that, so A plus for taking my breath away! But I’m also going to have to hard pass. I barely even do my own.”

 

“Come  _on_ ,” Weasel whines at him, hoping he can annoy him into submission. It’s worked once or twice, but dishes were a Big Ask. “Matteo straight up died on the floor last night in the middle of washing them. I just found him this morning.”

 

“Aw, man, Matteo? Not  _Matteo!_ ” Wade cries loudly enough that Weasel has to hold the phone away from his ear. “He was one of the...okay, kinda shitty ones. Great dishwasher though.”

 

“Eh, so so.”

 

“He still there?”

 

“Oh, yeah,” Weasel confirms, still not happy about having to deal with rude-ass, nosy cops first thing in the morning. His Irish Coffee hadn’t even kicked in yet. “They’re putting him in a bodybag soon but he’s still there. Just...just  _looking_ at me.”

 

“God, they didn’t even close his eyes?  _Brutal_. Ooh, put him on the phone. I wanna say goodbye.”

 

“I’m not doing that.”

 

“Fair. I’ll just yell then. Hold the receiver out for me.”

 

“Receiver? The fuck? This is a smart phone, you animal. And I’m still not doing that.”

 

“You’re no fun,” Wade pouts. “Since when were you no fun?”

 

“Pretty sure yelling at corpses isn’t my idea of fun. At least not sober.”

“You’re standing next to a dead body while calling me in to replace him. Not sure yelling at him is much of a stretch,” Wade tells him lightly, not sounding at all insulted. He never quite does, even when Weasel tries. “And let’s not pretend you don’t have whiskey in your hand.”

 

“Touché.”

 

“Okay,  _weeeell_ , good luck with your dishes and toodle -”

 

“ _Wade_ ,” Weasel groans, not above vying for pity. “My hands are way too dainty for this job. Yours are disgusting, and you’ll heal up like you never had to touch old, wet, leftover food.”

 

“Oh, flattery!” Wade chirps, and he doesn’t even sound sarcastic even though he must be, the bastard. “Just hire someone else.”

“Before tonight? We open in five hours!”

 

“I better let you get to it then,” Wade says, flat and low to show how much he means it. Fuck, that really means he’s not going to do it. Weasel shouldn’t have gotten out of bed today.

 

“Seriously?” He complains, “You’re just going to leave me to deal with this but you’d have murdered someone for me at the drop of a ballsack?”

 

Sometimes making Wade laugh helps his situation. The guy is crazy and acts on sudden whims more often than not, so Weasel can only hope.

 

“Good one!” Wade encourages him, the vocal equivalent of finger guns. “Yeah, my good dude, I’m not doing your dead guy dishes. Gross.”

 

“You,” Weasel says miserably. “are a terrible friend.”

 

“Aw, I love you too.”

 

Wade hangs up.

 

For the next several minutes, Weasel is left to figure out how Craigslist works. As a criminal, he thinks he should be better at traversing sites like this, but he hadn’t been able to sell that lamp six years ago either, so. He should have just done it on his computer, because on his phone he’s too lazy to correct his spelling or capitalize properly. It’s pretty creepy and scammy by the time he submits it, but he figures that he needs someone desperate enough to apply for the position.

 

He adds ‘ _not a scam. Immediate hire_.’ to the end of it before hitting submit, then tries to get the rest of his opening tasks done, just in case he really does have to do them all himself.

 

While considering the pros and cons of just letting his customers drink out of dirty glasses - he’s pretty sure the vast majority won’t give a shit - he hears someone call out from the bar. He reaches for his gun just in case, but it becomes clear as soon as he peers through the window in the kitchen door that there’s no need for it.

 

“Hello?”

 

The voice sounds exactly as young as the kid looks. Weasel steps out and lets the door swing shut after him, looking him over, incredulously. He looks so out of place in this bar, even when it’s empty, it’s ridiculous, from his windswept brown hair to his slight build and big doe eyes.

 

The fuck.

 

“Who - how did you get in here?” Weasel demands, looking toward the door, half blaming it.

 

“Uh, the front door,” the stranger says, which makes Weasel blame it the other half of the way, even though he knows it must be Bob’s doing.

 

“What,” He huffs out, “No way, Patch would never let someone like you in here.”

 

“I feel like I should be insulted.”

 

Weasel ignores him and starts for the door, shouting, “Hey, Patch! Patch, what the -”

 

“He didn’t let me in!”

 

The loud protest cuts him off mid stride. Weasel hates today. He doesn’t want to do this. He didn’t ask for his dishwasher to die or for his best friend to suck balls or for this literal child to sneak in here. He didn’t even really ask to move to New York, but here he is.

 

He rolls his eyes then turns around, more than a little exasperated.

 

“You  _just_  said -”

 

“No,” repeats the kid, “I said I came in through the front door.”

 

“You’re being deliberately evasive. I mean, bravo, you don’t look like you have it in you, but seriously, what are you doing here?”

 

“I’m here for the job,” kid says simply.

 

“Why is someone like you answering a weird-ass ad like that? It should have been  _hair-raising_ to most people, kid. Have you no survival instinct? I barely even tried! That was such a murder-y scam ad, I’m ashamed I wrote it, but I was kind of trying to attract murder-y people.”

 

“It said ‘ _not_  a scam’,” kid shrugs, “Seemed too obvious. Don’t most scams try to be tricky about it? Besides, I can take care of myself.”

 

“Yeah, no, I’m going to give Patch a piece of my mind for letting you in here, and then I’m going to kick you out. Or, I guess I should kick you out first,” Weasel decides, “C’mon then.”

 

“He didn’t! Really! I tried to get in through him, but he said this place wasn’t for me,” kid has the decency to look a little sheepish, but it just makes him look younger. “so I snuck passed him when he wasn’t looking.”

 

“Patch doesn’t usually leave his post,” Weasel tells him, suspicious but also ready to tear Patch a new one. This isn’t the day to slack on security. Fuch, can today just go away?

 

“He didn’t. I’m just,” kid shrugs. “I have a high stealth score, I guess.”

 

“Nice Dungeons and Dragons reference, but don’t think that means I’ll consider hiring you. Weirdly sneaky, okay. We’ll circle back around to that,” Weasel says, narrowing his eyes and reassessing. “How did you even get here so fast? I put the ad up like, twenty minutes ago.”

 

“I have an alert on my phone for new jobs, and I live nearby.”

 

“You? Looking like that, around  _here_?” Weasel scoffs. “Right.”

 

“Uh, yeah,” kid looks down at himself, tugging on the bottom of his button-down shirt. Did he really wear a dress shirt to a dishwasher interview? For fuck’s sake. “What’s wrong with me?”

 

“Literally nothing,” Weasel grouses. “Which means you can’t work here, kid.”

 

“What? Why?” kid demands, looking hurt, of all things. Seriously, what. “You haven’t even asked me any questions yet!”

 

“Pretty sure I interrogated you, actually,” Weasel disagrees, already starting back behind the bar, hoping this whole thing will be over with soon.

 

He has so much shit to do. He doesn’t need this, talking to innocent people takes so much work.

 

They have feelings, that they  _express_.

 

Ugh.

 

“I meant like, job interview questions! You know, ‘what are your strengths and weaknesses?’ or ‘where do you see yourself in five years?’,” kid waves his hands around to demonstrate that he feels like something that should be here is missing. “You’re an employer, you know what I mean.”

 

“As much as I need to fill this position, I  _really_  don’t think you want this job.”

 

Emphatically, kid states more firmly, standing straighter.

 

“I promise you, I  _do_.”

 

“I guarantee you, you  _don’t,_ ” Weasel says, raising his voice and making shooing motions with his hands. He kind of enjoys the kid’s humor, but he’ll never survive. It’s really a kindness that Weasel is getting rid of him now. Like one of those dog movies. “So go on. Scram. Come on,  _get!_ ”

 

“I’m not sure I get what’s happening, but I still want the job,” He takes a deep breath, which makes it seem like he’s just gearing up for a whole  _thing._ “My name is Peter Parker, and I’m -”

 

“Nope!” Weasel is a breath away from plugging his ears and saying ‘la la la’ as loudly as he possibly can. “C’mon, no  _names!_ Do you even know what kind of place this  _is_?”

 

Kid - Peter,  _shit_ \- looks around, taking everything in.

 

“The kind of place that hires felons?”

 

“ _Exactly_ , which is why I can’t possibly, in good conscience, hire some nubile slave boy to hang around all the riff raff. You gotta get that,” Weasel straightens his glasses and shakes his head. “This place is for sewer rats, not  _chipmunks_.”

 

“I’m  _not_ a -” Peter seems to think better for the petulant rebuttal that was turning out to be. “Listen. I’m stronger than I look and I’m a hard worker.”

 

“Okay, Simon, off you get.” Weasel sighs, this time holding his arm out, palm up, and holding it out like that in the direction of the door. It looks like a lopsided Heil Hitler, which makes him feel slightly guilty, but he’s already feeling that way so why the fuck not.

 

Peter raises his eyebrows. “Wouldn’t Alvin be more relevant?”

 

“I’m not a basic bitch,” Weasel lets his arm fall, then he gestures at Peter instead. “Plus, you’re clearly the nerdy one.”

 

“I’m not even wearing my glasses!” Peter bristles, but only slightly, like it’s in good humor. Aw shit, that’s not good. Weasel should have dragged him out by his ear way sooner.

 

“Ha!” He finds himself saying, a little too triumphantly. “So you do wear glasses.”

 

“ _You’re_  wearing glasses!”

 

“I don’t see your point.”

 

“Because of you’re nearsightedness?” Peter asks pointedly, a little smirk forming on his lips as he leans forward. He even guessed right. “So maybe you can ‘not see the problem’ with hiring me?”

 

“I like your sass, kid,” Weasel admits grudgingly, crossing his arms.“but I’m still not hiring you.”

 

Peter stares at him hard for a moment, looking for something in Weasel’s face that might indicate he’s changeable. Weasel’s too good for that; his expression stays hard and unmoving.

 

“Fine!” He spreads his arms in a sharp, wide motion. “At least sign this then.”

 

He digs in his back pocket and beings to approach the bar.

 

“I don’t sign things,” Weasel tells him, holding both hands up as Peter hops onto a barstool and spreads out a previously folded document.

 

Peter purses his lips briefly. “The  _least_  you can do if you’re not giving me a job is sign my paperwork so I can tell my parole officer that I’ve been trying, alright?”

 

The  _fuck._ Weasel’s brain does the equivalent of tires shrieking to a halt.

 

“Your -” He chokes a bit, sure his eyes are bulging. “Your  _what?_ ”

 

Peter looks confused, then embarrassed, flushing a little. “Did you not get it when I said that thing about hiring felons? You seem quicker than that.”

 

Weasel rears back, doing a double take.

 

“You, went to  _prison. You,_ looking like  _that._ ”

 

Weasel feels like he might have a heart attack. He is suddenly, aggressively,  _retroactively_ worried for this poor guy. The damage is done now, of course, but he’s pretty sure prison would fuck  _him_  up pretty bad, and he’s twice this kid’s size and all...hairy and weird.

 

“I can’t change the way I look, so yeah,” Peter looks uncomfortable, shifty-eyed. “I wasn’t there for long, just six months, so it wasn’t too -”

 

“Motherfuck, are you like,  _okay_ ?” Weasel can’t get over it. “ _Look_  at you.”

 

“Will you stop gesturing at me like I’m - God.” Peter huffs out a frustrated breath, steadily growing pinker. “I’m obviously fine, alright? I just need a job, and if you’re not going to give me one -”

 

Right, of course. Weasel needs to sign is little chaperone paper slip or whatever. Because of parol stuff. Because this slip of a thing with big brown eyes went did fuckin’  _time,_ holy hell, the world really is going to shit. Weasel kind of knew it, but now he’s pretty sure he  _knows it_ knows it.

 

“Seriously, how are you standing here right now?”

 

He really doesn’t mean to make that big of a deal of it. He feels like his whole ‘make it a joke until it feels less tragic’ thing is glitching in his head. Maybe he needs to eat something. The dead body first thing in the morning had meant he’d delayed breakfast and then gotten busy and then...this.

 

Peter’s face is impressively deadpan even though his ears are still rosy.

 

“With my feet.”

“Hardy har har har,” Weasel says, trying to snap out of it. Jesus. He might as well get comfortable, if he’s seriously going to consider this. Not that he is. Damn it. “I guess I should introduce myself if we’re getting fucking deep with this shit. Name’s Weasel.”

 

“Suits you,” Peter tells him, mouth twitching.

 

“I know, right?” Weasel says. “What were you in for?”

 

“Drugs.”

 

The answer is quick and full of bravado.

 

“Felony charge?” Weasel whistles, tapping his chin thoughtfully. “Nice white boy like you? Must be poor as fuck. And of had enough to sell. That part could be useful -”

 

“ _No_ ,” Peter cuts him off firmly,  glowering down at the table, “I wasn’t. It wasn’t like that. I’ve never done drugs in my life. Well, except some for my ADHD when I was younger, but that’s been a while. I’ve definitely  _never_  sold them.”

 

Weasel feels a little sick to his stomach at the wave of deja vu that hits him. It feels like another life, years ago when almost the same exact thing happened at him at Oscorp. The reason life led him down the road to Hellhouse in the first place. He was lucky that he’d changed his name and gone underground before he’d been arrested, because prison would have been shit for him.

 

Though, maybe not as bad as it had most likely been for Peter. God, he needs a nap.

 

“So you’re saying you were innocent,” he clarifies, voice a lot jauntier than he feels. That’s something both he and Wade are good at.

 

“Yeah,” Peter glances up and then back to the surface of the bar. “That’s what I’m saying.”

 

Weasel regards him for another moment, before blowing air out through his mouth, letting his lips flap audibly as he does so.

 

“...Shit, kid, that sucks.”

 

“You,” Peter looks up, eyes even wider. “you believe me?”

 

“Of course I believe you!” Weasel gestures again. “Have you  _seen_  you?”

 

This time Peter looks vaguely amused. “You keep saying that.”

 

“You look like Harry Potter and Hermione Granger had a bastard child who knocked up a Disney Princess and your the beloved yet tragically cursed golden child that the whole ass animated kingdom adores. Do you have an adorable familiar? Can you turn into a dove, by any chance?”

 

Peter snorts. “No, that would be pretty cool, but...no, I can’t do any of that. Wow, you really have a way with words. I’m pretty sure I don’t look like all that, but thanks?”

 

“Not really a compliment,” Weasel shrugs.

 

“Thanks anyway,” Peter tells him, sliding the paper Weasel’s supposed to sign toward him a bit.

 

It’s so earnest that it gives Weasel gas. Yeah, that’s why his stomach aches so bad.

 

“Same thing happened to me,” Weasel tells him, stalling and hating himself for it. Fuck, is he really about to do this? Why is he  _sharing?_ “Believe it or not. One day I was on my way to get somewhere and the next day I was in No Man’s Land. I get why they thought I did it. I know I look like a chubby squirrel that’s trying real hard to fit in but also might Peter Pettigrew the fuck out of you when your back is turned. But you? Did they learn nothing from Order of the Phoenix?”

 

Peter blinks a few times, and even though he hesitates, appraising Weasel carefully, it’s stupid how he obviously believes him. Why wouldn’t he? When Weasel extended him the same courtesy. That’s what his guileless expression seems to say. Disgusting. He’ll never make it. Weasel knows he should just put the poor kid out of his misery, sign the paper and let him go.

 

What is  _wrong_  with him? Maybe he just really doesn’t want to do those dishes.

 

Yeah, that seems the most likely.

 

“I’m not sure my judge read Harry Potter,” Peter answers after a moment. “or if he did, the lessons went over his head.”

 

Weasel taps his fingers anxiously on the countertop, near the pen, eyeing the paper briefly.

 

He ignores it, against his better judgement, and groans.

 

“So you really know the kind of place this is?”

 

“I read a little about it, “Peter says, leaning forward, eyes brighter now. He’s acknowledged the second chance and jumped on it. “Weren’t you in San Francisco before? What happened?”

 

“The earthquake happened.”

 

“Oh. I’m sorry.”

 

Kid looks like he fucking means it too, the absolute shit.

 

“You the sucker behind climate change? Thought you’d be taller. Meaner, at least.”

 

“Well, no,” Peter laughs. “I was studying bioengineering, before prison, so the political sabotage of environmental science wasn’t really on my itinerary.”

 

“Computer science, myself. I’m sure I could have predicted storms eventually, but you know, someone planted drugs on me, so I had different things to use my big brain for.”

 

Weasel pours himself another glass of whiskey as he talks.

 

“So I guess it’s both our faults.”

 

“ _Ha_. Yeah, well. New York seemed like a good place to remake ourselves. Plenty of work here, even more now thanks to our dickwit supreme leader. Barely a squabble over territory, in fact.”

 

One guy had died, but he’d been an asshole anyway. Weasel considers it a win. At least for now - but that’s all there ever was in this business. All wins were temporary wins.

 

“...Lucky you, I guess.”

 

“More like unlucky  _you_ ,” Weasel answers,

 

He asks for Peter’s drink.

 

Kid doesn’t even try to get a beer, seeming pleased enough about a Ginger Ale. Of course he doesn’t. They sit in quiet for a moment, drinking their respective beverages.

 

After a few sips, Weasel asks, “...You sure this is where you want to work?”

 

“No,” Peter sighs. “but I’ve been looking for weeks. The only other places that will hire me pay next to nothing, and I have someone to protect.”

 

“Ooooh, boy, Jesus. I’m going to forget you ever said that,” Weasel closes his eyes briefly. “That’s not something you want to tell people if you’re going to work in a place like this, holy shit.”

 

“...If I’m going to work here,” Peter repeats, brightening. “Does that mean I’m hired?”

 

“Get that adorable expression off your face,” Weasel brandishes a pointed finger at him sternly. “we’re not done negotiating.”

 

“But we  _are_ negotiating,” Peter grins. “so that means you  _are_ considering me for the position.”

 

“Don't look so smug, kid. You look like a fucking mouse who just got a chunk of cheese out of the trap without getting maimed, and I’m not here to be charmed.”

 

“Sorry I’m so charming then,” Peter says, mockingly sage. “What are we negotiating, hours, pay?”

 

“Nah, neither of those are negotiable. You work while we’re open, every day but Monday, and for as long as there are dishes to clean. You get paid twenty an hour.”

 

“That’s -” Peter’s eyes flicker wide but he catches himself. “Um, better than I was expecting.”

 

“Perks of working with criminals. Which you will be, you have to understand that. You’re not signing a confidentiality agreement, you just don’t say shit if you want to live. That’s not me threatening you, that’s just what I know will happen. Nasty folk come in here all the time and say nasty things,” Weasel pauses to sip, “I’m one of them.”

 

Peter tilts his head slightly. “You don’t seem so bad.”

 

Aw, shucks. Weasel finishes his glass of whiskey and pours himself enough as the other settles warmly in the pit of his stomach.

 

“Now I want to talk about how you got in here.”

 

“Uhhh.”

 

Weasel raises a hand before he can respond anymore. “I don’t want to know how you did it. If you’re a mutant or some shit, I cannot impress upon you how much I do  _not want to know._ ”

 

Peter looks baffled. “Okaaay.”

 

“ _All_  I want to know is if you can do it again,” Weasel says, the drink in his hand dipping and swaying as he talks. “Was it a fluke, or are you  _always_  good at getting around without being seen?”

 

Peter hesitates, as he should.

 

“...Why?”

 

“Because I’m putting on a musical and thought you might want to move the props around in the dark, thought it might be a real hoot,” Weasel intones. “Why the hell do you think? I’m shady ass dude. That kind of skill is useful to me.”

 

Peter frowns. “I don’t want to do anything illegal.”

 

“Somehow I gathered that. I won’t ask you to do anything that could land you back in prison, because as I mentioned, I  _don’t know how you made it out of there._ ”

 

Peter glares, mouth tight.

 

Weasel goes on, offering, “We could pay by the job, depending on the difficulty. Twenty to fifty bucks, couple times a week maybe.”

 

“I don’t know about -”

 

“ _Or_ , you can make yourself available to pass messages along during all of our working hours, whenever I need, and I’ll double your hourly pay.”

 

Peter looks positively  _stricken._ Weasel takes another long sip, waiting.

 

“That’s...yeah, that’s really hard to turn down,” Peter confesses, fingers fidgeting.

 

“Oh, I know,” Weasel nods, “This is why you don’t people that someone you love needs you. I know that giving you a dependable raise so you know what you’re taking home every week will entice you more than an occasional bonus.”

 

“You said you were forgetting about that,” Peter mumbles.

 

“First lesson?” Weasel does the ‘cheers’ motion with his glass. “We lie. We don’t forget anything, but it does often benefit us to pretend to.”

 

“Yeah, I got that,” Peter says, looking a bit  _too_  dejected as he considers his options. It’s kind of unbearable, and Weasel hates his life.

 

“Hey, listen,” Weasel exhales heavily. “I’m not unmoved by your plight, kid. I’m giving you an opportunity, but you don’t have to take it. You can just wash dishes.”

 

He has the audacity to chew his lip, clearly uncertain.

 

“...That’s a lot of money for something that isn’t illegal.”

 

Weasel barks a laugh. “Oh, no. No, no, no, nononono, nope, no. Kid. Buddy. Pal. You would fall out of your chair if I told you what you’d make if it I wanted you to do something illegal. But you aren’t interested in that kind of job. Right?”

“Right.”

 

“Right,” Weasel agrees, reminding himself as he does so. “It’s decent pay because it might be dangerous for you, but that depends on how good you think you’ll be at it. Again,  _I don’t want to know how you do it._ It’s like... passing notes in class. I’m not going to lie to you. The information might be sensitive, and you might not like what it says if you peek.  _Don’t_   _peek_. Plausible deniability. That’s the only way to get by in a life like this.”

 

Peter dithers a little longer. “...But I don’t have to do it. I can just wash dishes.”

 

“Sure,” Weasel sips again, watching Peter all the while. “if that’s what you want.”

 

He sees the moment that the kid makes the decision, right before he opens his mouth to give his answer. Peter looks at him, looking resolved. Which is better than resigned, Weasel reckons.

 

“How would it work?”

 

“The sneak sneak?” Weasel clarifies, mostly to break the tension.

 

Peter chuffs a small, amused sound. “Yeah, that.”

 

“I’d give you a letter and a location. It’ll have an address and sometimes, a more exact location to leave the letter. It’ll all be people that want the information you’re giving them, so it’s not like you’re leaving behind ransom notes or taunting the police like that zodiac nonsense.”

 

“Then what’s it for?” Peter dares to ask. “I don’t want people to get hurt because of me.”

 

“Yeesh. Some people just need a way to communicate that the cops can’t trace. I facilitate, but computer messages are getting less and less secure these days. Good old-fashioned paper is where it’s at, but I’m not exactly light on my feet, you feel?”

 

“I guess,” Peter admits. He’s hiding his nervousness well, but Weasel picks up on it.

 

“They’re probably committing crimes, kid. That’s why it pays so well. But I can tell you this, I don’t deal with the  _real_  scum of the earth. People that hurt children, sex traffickers, those guys that kidnap people and keep them in basements, HYDRA torture hoes. I don’t go there.”

 

Expressive eyes flood with relief. “You don’t?”

 

“Nah, I got a friend who’d come slit my throat if he found out I was helping losers like that,” Weasel shrugs. “Keeps me honest.”

 

Peter’s mouth twists wryly. “Sounds honest.”

 

“Plus, those guys? More trouble than they’re worth,” Weasel adds dismissively. “They think they own you, start asking for more and more, it never stops at just helping a  _bit._ No one owns me, not the government, not the police, no one. That’s the whole fucking point of this place.”

 

Peter pauses for another moment, then folds up the parole form and shoves it back in his pocket. Subtle, but dramatic in it’s own little way. He offers a hand for Weasel to shake.

 

“I’m in.”

 

“On the sneak sneak?” Weasel nods and plants his hand on Peter’s firmly. “Alright!”

 

“Is that really what we’re calling it?”

 

“I’ll figure something out, but before that, you’re going to need a name.”

 

“Did you forget it already?” Peter quirks an eyebrow and the corner of his mouth at the same time. “I thought you said you don’t forget anything.”

 

“Hilarious. Not when it benefits me, I said, but I digress,” Weasel sighs deeply. “You’re not going by Peter Parker here, like some kind of - you know what? I’ve made so many Harry Potter references at this point, I think you get it.”

 

Peter inclines his head, musing. “So I need an alias.”

 

“I gotta have something to yell at you sometimes, and it can’t be what’s on your license - “ Even as tipsy as Weasel is getting, he notices the drastic change on Peter’s face. A brief jolt of panic that fades to intense unease. Weasel hadn’t thought this was going to be the difficult part of the conversation. “Whoa, what was  _that_  face? Is Peter not even your real name?”

 

“It is my real name,” Peter says, harsh and immediate.

 

Weasel sets down his glass and leans against it, propped up on his elbows.

 

“For this to be legit enough for your parole officer, it can’t be under the table. I  _am_  going to see your ID, so you might as well tell me.”

 

Peter is tense, but he nods curtly, reaching in his back pocket again to pull out his wallet this time.

 

“Fine. Look for yourself.”

 

Weasel takes it, not sure what he’s supposed to expect. At first he doesn’t see what’s wrong with it - at least it’s not a fake. His first thought was that the kid was too young to work here, but he’s twenty, so that’s fine for a back of house position.

 

The picture is what draws his attention next. The longer hair, the softer jaw, it’s not just that he looks younger it’s - and the name is -

 

“Oh.”

 

Weasel blinks once, hard.

 

“Yeah,” Peter mutters.

 

A record scratches in Weasel’s head as his brain catches up.

 

“Fuck, they put you in a women’s prison, huh?” Weasel knows it probably isn’t appropriate to say, and probably makes him a terrible person, but he’s pretty relieved, if he’s honest with himself. Having to imagine this kid in prison with dudes that would make Weasel shit his pants was a bit much to think about on the regular. “That’s shitty, but safer, I guess.”

 

Voice still tight, Peter nods again. “That’s what my lawyer said too.”

 

Weasel brandishes the ID, waving it a bit as he heads toward the kitchen. His heart is pounding a bit faster than it usually does when he’s been drinking, but hell if he’s going to let it show. He doesn’t know what the fuck he’s doing, but the least he can do is be chill. He’s good at that.

 

“I’m going to go scan this, but as soon as payroll is set up, I’ll shred it. Let me know when you get that shit changed all official-like so we can redo the paperwork.”

 

It’s not like he doesn’t have a dead name of his own, even if it’s not quite the same thing.

 

“...Thank you.”

 

He gags dramatically. “Don’t be so polite all of a sudden, kid, it’s creepy.”

 

“Creepy?” He hears Peter’s voice loosen up a bit. “Me? Do you have a trench coat to complete the whole pervert-on-the-library-computer vibe?”

 

“There we go, “Weasel approves. He disappears for a minute to scan it, then comes“You’ll be in the back most of the time, doing dishes, or delivering messages, out of sight. I don’t need people inquiring about the barely legal chinchilla in my employ, for a whole host of reasons. The only person who’ll be back there with you is Helga, the cook. She’s mute and a little slow, so. She shouldn’t give you trouble. Have you decided on what we should call you?”

 

“No, I’m terrible at that, always have been.”

 

“When in doubt, go with an animal. Could be related to your job or appearance or skill, whatever.”

 

Peter grimaces. “How about Pidgeon?”

 

“Let’s stay away from plays on messenger birds,” Weasel snarks, “Kind of gives it away.”

 

“Eh,” Peter lifts his arms helplessly. “You keep comparing me to various rodents, so...”

 

“Mouse!” He snaps his fingers and points at Peter again. “Ha, Weasel and Mouse. I like the sound of it. Like an Adult Swim show or some shit. This is a hole in the wall, and this is where we live and eat and banter. It’ll be awesome.”

 

Peter makes a show of looking around the dusty old bar, cringing and wrinkling his nose.

 

“...To be clear, I don’t want to  _live_ in this place.”

 

“Great. So if you don’t want to die here either,” Weasel gulps down the rest of his drink and then slides the glass over to Peter, purposefully. “Get to work. We open in three hours.”


	2. bad night

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> some nights are worse than others

It’s been a month since securing a job at Hellhouse. It’s been two weeks since he was allowed to move out of the halfway house, after getting his first paycheck.

 

It’s been ten months since Spider-man patrolled the streets. 

 

Peter is glad to be back with aunt May. 

 

She seems so happy to have him there, too, despite everything. Even if this tiny one-bedroom apartment isn’t the home he’d grown up in. May had nearly lost the house when Uncle Ben died, and the court fees during and after his arrest dealt the final blow.

 

He swallows and turns over, the thin mattress in the fold-out sofa squeaking loudly as he does so. 

 

It’s good to be in the city again, good to not be misgendered every day, good to not have to worry about being under surveillance constantly for fear of letting his abilities slip, good not to have to defend himself  _ just  _ enough but not  _ too  _ much when someone picks a fight. It’s definitely good to be out of solitary, to hear his aunt’s peaceful breathing in the bedroom rather than the faint sounds of crying and yelling and laughter without mirth, the acoustics a living nightmare in tile and cement.

 

The city is never quiet, but prison was melancholy at best and tragic (or  _ terrifying)  _ at worst, even though he keeps telling himself it’s not as bad as it could have been. He knows it wasn’t. He knows he was lucky, it just doesn't feel that way.

 

Another gunshot sounds from off in the distance, followed by the sound of sirens.

 

Peter’s heart races as he lies on the pull-out couch and stares at the water stained ceiling, hating every moment that he doesn’t jump up and do something. He should, and he’s been talking himself into it ever since he got out of the halfway house, where it wasn’t a possibility. Sneaking out at night would mean he’d go straight back to prison, and he wasn’t doing that to May again.

 

It wasn’t like he didn’t have a suit, either. He’d found it where he’d stashed it in a brick wall just after being bailed out, forever thankful that they didn’t have a warrant to search his room first. It was the only thing he’d had to hide, and it’s one thing he’s managed to keep close to his chest all this time - all his, and yet, he hasn’t been able to bring himself to patrol.

 

Creeping along walls to deliver messages of dubious origin doesn’t count. 

 

He’d made some modifications to his suit, exchanging the red and royal blue for midnight blue and black, with the faintest white webbing around his eyes, shoulders, back, and torso, half there for style and half to remind him where some of the zipper lines were. 

 

He wore his spider suit for his Mouse jobs too, just without the mask, and the addition of a black athletic shorts and dark blue hoodie he can zip up to his nose.

 

Peter is pretty happy with it, considering it allows him to walk down the street pretty inconspicuously at night, while also allowing him to quickly transition into Spider-man directly after, depending on which version of himself is needed for a quick escape.

 

He just...hasn’t managed to do the spider thing again yet. 

 

It’s been so  _ long _ , that’s what the problem must be. After being arrested, he’d been scared of being followed, so he hadn’t dared take out his suit for the two months it took to go to court. Then, of course, there was prison, where he’d wanted desperately to be able to climb the walls, but couldn’t. 

 

No matter how awful prison had been, prison for mutants was rumored to be worse. Sure, he’d have also had help from mutant resources rather than a well-meaning but overworked public defender, but it wasn’t worth risking May, or the only thing that had ever been his.

 

It doesn’t help that the Daily Bugle headlined just the other day - using one of Peter’s old photos -

 

_ MENACE STILL MIA    _

 

Somehow both celebrating him being gone and blaming him for the spike in crime in his absence.

 

_ (Maybe they’re right,  _ is the worst part.  _ Maybe he’s been gone too long. Maybe he should give up. Maybe he really is doing more harm than good. Maybe the city is better without him anyway, surely if it got out the Spider-man is exactly the criminal they say -) _

 

By the time he’s beginning to doze off, May has to start getting ready for work. He wakes up again, listening to her morning routine calms him. The rustle of clothes and sliding drawers, the familiar sound of her feet padding across the carpet, trying to be quiet. The arthritis in her hip seems to be acting up, judging by her gate, and he makes a mental note to stop by the pharmacy soon.

 

She’s in her scrubs by the time she walks into the front room, which is a mash-up of living, dining, and kitchen. It’s not a great place, but she’s made it cute with all the aesthetic touches from their old home - trinkets and throw pillows and bookshelves. There’s less than they used to have, but it anywhere with May feels like home. Peter is lucky to have her.

 

“Peter, honey, did you not get any sleep?”

 

How does she always know? She’s not the one with super hearing. Peter sits up, raking his fingers through his hair and offering her a sleepy smile.

 

“Tossed and turned a bit, but I got a few in.”

 

She perches on the edge of the bed and winces when it creeks. 

 

“We’ll get you a better bed soon, dear, I’m sorry I don’t have your old one -”

 

“Aunt May, no, stop,” Peter tells her, taking her hand. “You got evicted and I wasn’t there to help. It’s good that you donated it, okay? It’d be easier than hauling everything up the stairs here.”

 

Six floor walk up, but the only place that May could afford all on her own, after everything. She had help from neighbors, who she’d fostered friendships with over the years. One had let her use his work truck, and gathered a few of the able bodied people to lift things, while others had helped clean up the new place and cook her first few meals.

 

Peter had spent days writing them thank you letters from his cell, crying with relief.

 

She looks uncertain, eyes too soft. “Still -”

 

“Plus, that couch is a cloud compared to - you know, and the blanket is cozy as heck.”

 

She smiles at him, eyes crinkling. “Well, it’s good that your job pays you well, so you’ll be able to afford a mattress if you do end up wanting one. Even if I don’t like the idea of you doing hard labor. You’re too smart for that, Peter.”

 

He squeezes her hand. “It’s not so bad. I can handle it.”

 

“They’re being good to you there? I told Mary the name, and she - well, she was polite, but she did go a bit pale.” She frowns, eyes calculating. “You’re not putting yourself in danger, are you?”

 

“I promise, Aunt May,” he tells her, “The owner is pretty cool. The patrons are kind of bad news, but I haven’t even seen any of them. I stay in the back and wash dishes, and take out the trash.”

 

Peter does not, strictly speaking, ‘live nearby’ like he’d told Weasel on their first meeting, but his powers had always allowed him to make good time.

 

“I think you’re working too much,” she says in return. “If you only have one day a week off, how are you supposed to go back to school? You aren’t getting enough sleep as it is.”

 

Peter’s smile feels creaky on his face.

 

“It’s not the time to worry about that, Aunt May, c’mon,” he waves her off casually and throws his legs over the side of the bed. “I like it there. I’ll go back to school as soon as everything is settled.”

 

It feels like a lie. He hopes it isn’t, but it feels like one. The same way it does when he tells himself he’ll begin patrolling again  _ tomorrow,  _ but he tells himself so anyway.

 

One day he swears it won’t be a lie, so really it’s more like a promise.

 

“Arlight, dear,” May says softly, kissing him on the head as she heads to the kitchen. “You make coffee while I toast the bagels and cut the fruit, hm?”

 

One of the things he appreciates about working in a bar, other than the pay and the lack of nosy questions, is that he doesn’t have to be in until noon, an hour before they officially open. The extra hour is supposed to be for him to catch up on anything he’d needed to let soak overnight, but so far, he didn’t need to often. Instead he usually ends up helping Helga with prep, which he thinks she appreciates, even though she’s terribly difficult to read. 

 

Most importantly, he gets to spend the morning with May before she heads off for a shift at the hospital. They’ve even worked in an early lunch here and there. 

 

“Yeah, of course,” Peter says hurriedly, hopping up and scurrying to the kitchen, like a -

  
  
  


“Mouse!”

 

Weasel likes to yell dramatically, sometimes when things are going wrong and sometimes for no reason at all. ‘ _ To keep you on your toes _ ’ Weasel had told him, shrugging. 

 

It isn’t bad shouting, there’s no edge or malice to it, doesn’t set off his spidey sense, but it does make Peter jump from time to time when he he isn’t expecting it. Normally, he’s wearing headphones to drown out the worst of the noise, but if he concentrates he can still pick out voices.

 

Peter slips the headphones down around his neck and turns toward the door just as Weasel comes through it. He’s flipping through his phone casually, not even looking up.

 

“Sup?”

 

“We got a large party tonight coming back into the city to celebrate,” he pauses a moment, waving his hand around, “y’know, not dying and getting paid.”

 

“Not-Dead Parties, sounds like fun, or at least better than the alternative,” Peter says, raising his eyebrows. Weasel is weirdly quiet. “You just preparing me for the overflow or?”

 

“I’m not that gracious,” Weasel says, mostly back to normal. “Helga is gonna need your help. She said you’ve been assisting with prep sometimes and know some of the easy dishes.”

 

“She  _ said  _ that,” Peter blinks, looking over at the large, red-haired, stern-looking woman at the stove. She looks at him, then at Weasel, then rolls her eyes. Peter grins.

 

“I know things,” Weasel grouses. “Don’t gossip about me behind my back, Helga, I swear. You’re going to break my heart. Mouse hasn’t even been here that long.”

 

She grunts. Weasel turns back to him, then pauses, looking annoyed. 

 

“Jesus, how can you stand there dressed in serial killer gear,” Weasel’s hand draws a line up and down Peter, indicating to the non-slip boots, heavy duty jeans, waterproof apron and rubber gloves. “and still be not the least bit threatening.”

 

“Guess not all of us get to look like we’re not allowed near public parks.”

 

“Harsh,” Weasel says. “Here, hold a knife, maybe that will help - oh wow, you did it - and  _ nope _ , you still just look like you were about to cut me up an apple for a snack or some shit.”

 

Peter scowls, irritated as he sets the knife back down.

 

“Maybe that just means I’m the one you least expect when your back is turned.” He tries to sound intimidating, but Weasel doesn’t look sufficiently cowed.

 

“Maybe,” Weasel agrees, but he’s too amused to be taking it seriously. “Anyway. You’re probably getting overtime tonight, so you can sing my praises later. Chop chop, little Mouse.”

 

Chopping is a fairly accurate assessment for what he does for the better part of two hours, though there’s also flipping and frying and plating involved. While he’s making fries and burgers and onion rings, Helga is making what appears to be an entire tray of chimichangas. 

 

“Is the whole table getting the same thing?” He asks Helga rhetorically, glancing over his shoulder, which he quickly learns is a mistake.

 

He slices his finger and manages not to hiss at the pain. 

 

Blood starts to leak down in between his knuckles and he grabs one of the clean dish rags he keeps in his pocket and wraps his hand in it so that his pit companion won’t worry. His finger throbs terribly, but he knows it will heal up, probably within the hour unless it’s deeper than he expected. Even so, it’ll be gone by the end of the night, and he doesn’t want -

 

His arm is suddenly snatched up and into one of Helga’s strong, calloused hands. Her hard gaze hits him as she snatches his hand up to inspect it.

 

“It’s fine, really,” Peter insists, but doesn’t try to pull back.

 

She grunts, the inclination different than the humored one before. 

 

What she proceeds to do is a little daunting. She picks Peter up under his armpits to sit on a stool she sometimes rests on during her breaks, or drags outside with when she has a smoke. He lets it happen, although he’s a little floored all the while. Next, Helga bends down and takes out a first aid kit, proceeding to wash and bandage his finger appropriately. She’s a little rough about it, but Peter is already starting to heal, and he doesn’t want her to catch on by delaying things.

 

When she’s finished, she takes his wrist and inspects his hand again, before nodding firmly.

 

“Hn.” This noise is more satisfied than the last.

 

“Thanks, Helga, you really didn’t have to,” Peter assures her, but she only shrugs and turns back to her station. 

  
  


It’s another two hours before he gets to move back to the sink. Peter bobs his head to the tune of his music as he gets into washing the dishes, hands moving methodically from one to the next. It’s boring, tedious, repetitive, but there’s a system to it. He can listen to music or a podcast and let his mind wander now that his hands are occupied and the noise is mostly blocked out. 

 

Tonight is a little different though. It’s not that the bar seems louder over all, like there might be if there was an extra large group celebrating, but there does seem to be  _ one _ person there that Peter hasn’t been able to stop hearing over the crowd. He must be seated at the bar, but in addition to that, his voice just carries, and he doesn’t seem to have an off switch.

 

“-sure, I get to meet heroes all over, but I  _ thought _ if I moved to New York, I’d at least get to meet Spider-man! But no one’s seen the little guy for like, a year. Just my luck.”

 

“You talk about this way too much,” Weasel’s voice complains. “More when you’re drunk.”

 

“Don’t the Avenger’s have most of that stuff covered?” a third man’s voice chimes in.

 

“Wha  _ wha _ ? Blasphemy! I mean, Captain America is pretty boss - I’d tap that ass any day,  _ any dAY - _ but for the most part their a bunch of big-headed, self-righteous mofos. They take care of the big stuff, sure, but Spider-man knew where it was at. Didn’t try to bite off more than he could chew, didn’t destroy entire buildings, like,  _ that’s where people live,  _ yo. It’s a whole different demographic! Gimme some more of that sweet, sweet poison, my tender barkeep.”

 

“We  _ talked _ about using words like that.”

 

“Don’t they try to evacuate the area?”

 

“Whatever, Avengers are dumb. They can suck my sock.”

 

“Your  _ sock? _ ” Weasel repeats, appalled.

 

“You heard me!”

 

“I won’t argue with you there,” the third voice says gruffly. “but what about the, uh, the, uh, what’s it called, the Demon?”

 

“You mean  _ Daredevil?  _ He’s  _ aight _ . He beats the shit out of the right people, but he doesn’t fly through the air like he’s in the City Edition of Attack on Titan.”

 

“Wassat?”

 

“Built a wall to keep out immigrants? Eh, you know what? Wrong universe, don’t worry about it.”

 

Wrong universe? What a weird dude. Peter isn’t trying to listen in on the rest of the conversation, but his deep voice is ringing loud and clear through the wall, above all the rest of the noise.

 

“Wade, you fucking show off,” comes Weasel’s voice again, “Bragging about your acid trips without offering to share. At least stop  _ moping. _ ”

 

“I just spent three weeks in the Sahara Desert. I died of heat exhaustion or dehydration or whatever,  _ four times _ before I finally got out of that sandy hellscape,” the talkative one, Wade, continues. “I can talk about whatever I want, and I can order whatever I want. I’m going to eat myself into a food coma by eating all the chimichangas I can fit in this meat suit, drink as much as it takes to make me forget what I look like, and uh, hope  _ you  _ forget what I look like too.”

 

Well, that explained the chimichanga mystery.

 

The other man chuckles uncomfortably in response to the blatant flirtation. 

 

“Nah...m’gonna go.”

 

“Couldn’t hurt to try,” Wade says, hiccupping. “Hey, Weasel,  _ Weas,  _ I deserve this. Don’t I deserve this? I get to have a party.”

 

“Pretty sure none of us get anything like we deserve,” Weasel answers, a bit cryptically. He must realize it goes over his drunk friend’s head. “So we decide what we want and we just go for it.”

 

“Thas bufful.” 

 

Is Wade actually sniffling? Weasel can be pretty articulate, and definitely says the right thing almost as much as he says the wrong thing, but that isn’t exactly tear-jerking. Maybe it means more to Wade than it does to Peter, or maybe he’s just drunk enough to be that emotional.

 

“Like you’re going for those chimichangas. Kinda disgusting but, uh, good for you.”

 

“Yeah,” Wade’s speech is garbled this time, like he’s talking with his mouth full. “Goofomeh.”

 

That’s when Wade starts in on his food, making sounds so pornographic that Peter has to turn the volume on his music up to drown it out.

  
  


At the end of the night, Peter is done with most of the dishes, save for a few crusted pots he’s left soaking for tomorrow. Even being set back with all of the prep work and the cut on his finger, he’s strong enough that the scrubbing is pretty light work and quick enough he’s only leaving twenty minutes or so after Helga is finished with her end-of-day tasks.

 

His finger is still wrapped in a bandage even though it’s long since healed, and he’ll probably have to keep it on the rest of the week for posterity. After Helga had gone out of her way to patch him up, he has a feeling she’ll notice if it’s suddenly gone, and he’s trying to avoid that kind of slip up.

 

Peter walks out through the bar to make sure there weren’t any glasses forgotten anywhere around, and the door isn’t even done swinging shut when he hears someone speak.

 

“Holy mutha,” the same voice he’d been hearing chatter on all night said to him, from where he’s splayed out on top of the bar.

 

The figure is big, bulky, muscled and dressed in leather, with weapons strapped all over him. So, a usual Hellhouse patron. He has a mask on too, but it’s being worn more like a beanie at the moment, with most of his face exposed, cheek pressed to the wood of the bar. 

 

Even in the dim lighting, Peter can see how scarred the man’s face is. He feels a wave of sympathy pains at the sight of it. Despite the somewhat distracting amount of scar tissue, Peter’s eyes get drawn to the man’s vibrant blue eyes, which are currently reddish and wet with tears.

 

Peter swallows, shifting his bag on his shoulder.

 

“...Are you okay?”

 

“M’good,” Wade says, giving him a thumbs down that Peter thinks he might have meant to be a thumbs up. But then, he is  _ crying,  _ so. “but you’re like... _ hella  _ good. Mhm, how you livin’?”

 

“Wow,” Peter laughs, feeling his ears get hot. He remembers how Wade flirted with the uninterested man at the bar, remembers the joke about forgetting how he looked. That makes more sense now, considering the map of scars on his face. “You’re really out of it. Do I need to call you a cab?”

 

“Nah, m’stayin’,” Wade tells him, blue eyes glassy. “Weasel said s’fine cuz m’sad.”

 

Peter is surprised that someone with a healing factor as good as his stories seem to indicate can actually get drunk. He’d often wondered if Captain America had that problem too, and he hadn’t been able to test it out himself yet. Wade doesn’t seem to be having any difficulty.

 

But there had been more bottles of alcohol than usual in the trash tonight, so maybe it was a quantity thing. Peter can’t imagine how anyone could physically fit that much liquid in them, but judging by the smell of ammonia out here, Wade really  _ hasn’t.  _

 

“You’re really having a rough time, huh?” Peter says without thinking. 

 

“Me? Nah, m’doin’ breezy stuff in the...air like  _ wsshhh, _ ” Wade informs him, shifting his face so that he thuds his forehead against the counter. 

 

“Ok _ ay, _ ” Peter responds, realizing that he’s not going to make it home as early as he’d planned, “I think the saying is ‘free and breezy’, but you got the point across so, yeah, good job, buddy.”

 

“Psh. I know words,  _ you  _ don’t know words. Lookit you, like a...bitty boy with small living time in pajamas,” Wade scoffs, slobbering unabashedly his arm. 

 

“Are you…” Peter is trying not to laugh while also being vaguely insulted. “Are you calling me a child? Because one, kinda rude _ ,  _ and two, I think I need to write that down.”

 

“Smilin’,” Wade seems to try to smile back but uses his mouth all wrong. “M’hilarious.”

 

Peter does laugh this time. “You kind of are.”

 

Wade flops around until he’s lying on his back, and Peter watches, little aspirations escaping as he tries not to keep giggling at the floppy fish routine playing out before him.

 

“What is you,” Wade starts, frowning at himself, brow furrowing, like he knows something is wrong but he can’t pinpoint what. “You here for what? No, s’wrong. Shut up, whitey.”

 

_ Whitey?  _ Peter frowns, “Hey,  _ you’re  _ white too, but I’m not defining you by it.”

 

“Not you,” Wade waves him off, “him, me, other him, in,” he pats himself on his head, where his mask is bunched over his eyes. “Here. In here voice.”

 

“Oh,” Peter blinks a few times, trying to understand. “The voice is called Whitey?”

 

“White box, yellow box, voices are loud, sometimes more, today the most, but...stupid, why am I,” Wade bangs his head on the bar hard enough that Peter jumps at the sound. 

 

“I think you wanted to know why I’m here,” Peter interjects, which successfully distracts the man from dropping his head again. “I work here. I wash dishes. Glamorous, I know, but please, no autographs, I’m just a normal guy.”

 

“M’gonna punch Wizzl so hard,” he says, voice sleepy yet emphatic. “S’no place for…”

 

He waves a big gloved hand in Peter’s direction.

 

“Hey, hey, hey, don’t do that, he’s my boss, and I need this job,” Peter says quickly, holding up his hands and hoping to redirect. “Besides, I want to be here. Don’t punch Weasel.”

 

“Wha?” Wade’s blue eyes squint at him. “Punch Wizzl? Whaffor?”

 

Peter snorts another laugh. “Nn, nothing. Uh, so what are you celebrating?”

 

Wade stares at him, suddenly silent. Peter shifts from one foot to the other uncomfortably, almost positive he’s said the wrong thing. Foot In Mouth Syndrome, back at it again! He’d gotten good at keeping his mouth shut in court and in prison, but maybe he’d gotten complacent, considering Weasel’s smartassery threshold was unmatched.

 

“Is it ...your birthday?” Peter goes on weakly, digging himself deeper. The problem is, he knows it, but the words come out anyway.

 

“Nah,” Wade answers, jolting out of the quiet that Peter’s question had. “S’the opposite.”

 

Oh, he’s falling right into this. Just,  _ right _ on in there.

 

“...The opposite of your birthday?”

 

“Not me, not birth.”

 

Peter winces, realizing what comes next.

 

“My wife died,” is the next thing Wade says, twisting Peter’s stomach around. “year’go today.”

 

Peter doesn’t know what to say. He wants to say he’s sorry, or something better than that, but he can’t think of what it might be. He thinks of Ben, of what he’d want to hear, but the answer is nothing, not from a stranger. Dragging himself into this dismal interaction was his own fault, but it’s also kind of Weasel’s fault for saying there was a celebration.

 

The words bubble out of him, overriding the part of him that’s telling him to just shut up. Just pop out a platitude, a gentle ‘ _ my condolences’  _ and it’ll be better than whatever is about to -

 

“Did -” 

 

It’s stilted for an instant, like his brain is trying to give him a second chance, but then it mocks him by tumbling out before his inhibitions can snatch it back. 

 

“Did she love chimichangas that much, or?”

 

A stretch of silence passes between them, Wade staring at him like he is something impossible, or perhaps insane, which is pretty rich coming from an apparently immortal merc with voices in his head. Peter feels himself flush, and he shoves his hands into his pockets, drawing in on himself and on the verge of apologizing, when Wade’s bewildered expression cracks down the middle.

 

The first burst of laughter is like a whip and Peter jolts with surprise. 

 

It hadn’t been in the best taste, and it hadn’t even been that funny, but clearly Wade’s grief-stricken yet thoroughly drunken state disagrees. He barks a series of laughs so loud he grabs his belly and curls over onto his side to endure it.

 

The door to the office behind the bar opens at Wade’s howling hysterics. Peter is grinning, tittering along with Wade here and there, helpless against the contagious laughter but trying to keep it reeled in all the same. Weasel comes through, looking rattled.

 

“Aw, man, stay away from the kid.”

 

“Din’t -” Wade manages to catch his breath, “Din’t do nothin.”

 

“He didn’t,” Peter assures him, having no success forcing down his smile.

 

“Even so, Mouse ain’t for you,” Weasel scowls. “Go on home, you’re not getting paid for this.”

 

“ _ Mouse, _ ” Wade breathes in awe, starting to push himself up into a sitting position. “S’perfect for you. How’d’ya even get Weasel to -”

 

He falls off of the bar with a thud. 

 

Peter covers his mouth to stifle another laugh, which comes too easily on the tails of the last.

 

“ _ Dude, _ ” Weasel breathes, stepping around the bar before Peter can. From what Peter can tell, he’s nudging Wade with his foot. “I’m impressed, honestly. You drunk enough to feel pretty?”

 

Peter observes, a few beats pass tensely.

 

“...My maskuff?”

 

It takes a moment for Peter to register the misarticulation for what it is.

 

“Uh,  _ yeah, _ ” Weasel tells him, “You’ve got drool all over your face, man, do you really not feel that? It’s not a great look.”

 

“...Can’t feel it.”

 

“That does happen,” Weasel says, his voice not exactly reeking of sympathy, and yet, Peter is fairly sure he  _ is  _ sympathetic. 

 

“...was talking a cute mouse wif my  _ mask off? _ ”

 

“He’s not  _ a _ mouse, he’s  _ Mouse.  _ Anyway, I’m sure the fact you smell like a cocktail of your own bodily fluids is more sickening than your face could ever be, so,” Weasel shrugs. “Congrats. You did it. That mess of scar tissue might actually be the least repulsive thing about you.”

 

Peter feels his smile tapering off. 

 

In a stage whisper, Wade laments, “Damn. Finkican recover?”

 

“Definitely not,” Weasel tells him, glancing at Peter, who is torn between feeling bad for Wade and cross about Weasel kicking someone while they’re down. “But that’s fine by me. There’s a reason you haven’t been introduced.”

 

“...he dint puke though.”

 

“You sure? Smells kinda like vomit.”

 

“Prob’ly mine.”

 

“Yeah, that checks out.”

 

“I’m still here, you know,” Peter sighs, looping around the bar to peer at where Wade is now lying on the floor. “You don’t have to worry about your face, Wade. Are you hurt?”

 

Oh, right, the guy has a pretty stellar healing factor. But then, he’s not supposed to know that, so his concern shouldn’t be ridiculous.

 

“Oi!” Weasel hisses, “Stop that. You’re gonna make this pervert obsess over you.”

 

Something about that doesn’t ring true. If it’s anything like the rest of Weasel’s terrible defense mechanisms, Peter thinks it means he’s worried about Wade. How Peter figures into that, he isn’t sure, but he doesn’t sense any danger from the big, sad man on the floor. At least, for now.

 

But for now is all that really matters. That had been lesson two, according to Weasel, the  _ hypocrite _ .

 

“Would  _ not _ ,” Wade argues, slurring and blubbery. “S’cute.”

 

“It’s already begun,” Weasel says ominously. “Mouse, I can’t protect you from him, you know that right? Bitch can’t  _ die.  _ Straight up immortal. Shoot him, he spits the bullets out -”

 

“-s’not how it works -”

 

“Don’t  _ worry  _ about this creeper. Scowl or something, look less appealing.”

 

Peter’s mouth pulls tight, genuinely annoyed as he glowers at Weasel.

 

“Shit,” Weasel waves his hand at him, looking away, as if he’s trying to erase Peter’s face. “Abort, abort, you just look like you’re frustrated because I’m talking too loud in the library.”

 

“Thasso hot,” Wade gurgles against the floor.

 

“And you look like someone who’s never taken care of another person in his life,” Peter points out, gesturing to the scarred lump on the floor. “You’re just going to leave him there?”

 

“Whoa,” Weasel takes a physical step back. “Don’t call me out like that. I’m just trying to act normal. Doting on each other isn’t our  _ thing,  _ Mouse.”

 

Peter’s mouth twists to the side in irritation.

 

“How exactly his helping him up off the floor  _ doting  _ on him?” 

 

“Have you seen this guy? He’s a huge pile of dense muscle,” Weasel wiggles his arms like noodles. “Also, did you not hear about the bodily fluids? Has a month in a dishpit made you immune to pungent aromas and icky substances in general?”

 

“S’fine, m’good,” Wade mumbles into the floor.

 

“See?” Weasel confirms. “He’s good.”

 

“Oh my god,” Peter expels a harsh breath. “Criminals are actually just giant babies, aren’t they?”

 

“ _ Scuse _ me?” Weasel gasps. Then he taps his chin. “No, that’s fair. I mean, I wouldn’t go throwing binkies at us and bet on it saving your ass, but as far as maturity and slobber levels, spot on.”

 

“M’nota  _ baby _ .”

 

“You definitely are. Everyone is some days,” Peter replies, upbeat. “Today is your day. Congrats!”

 

“Ew,” Weasel grimaces. “ _ Babies. _ ”

 

“Dint even get to be nekkid,” Wade whines, but there’s a less despondent and more playful about his tone of voice now.

 

Peter snickers and sets his bag down heavily.

 

“C’mon, you grab one arm and I’ll grab the other,” Peter says, stooping to do just that. “We’ll get him over to the booth just over there. Think you can handle that much?”

 

“Uuuuuuuggggghhhhhhh,” Weasel says. “I  _ guess. _ ”

 

A moment later they each have one of Wade’s brawny arms over their shoulders.

 

“Ready?”

 

“Whatever.”

 

“Yudun have to -”

 

Peter grunts for show as they lift. He must be a little more than two hundred pounds, which Peter could have easily lifted on his own, but he can’t be that conspicuous. Weasel doesn’t want to know, and Peter doesn’t want him to. As it is, he pretends to struggle as they walk the mercenary over to the booth, keeping an eye on Weasel’s movements and matching his own to them cautiously.

 

“Serusly, m’sober in less than nnn hour,” Wade grumbles. “S’barrassing.”

 

“Maybe next time you’ll think about that beforehand,” Peter tells him simply, just before hiking Wade up a little more so that they can dump him onto the booth bench.

 

He lands with a thud and a groan, then appears to promptly pass out. 

 

Weasel slumps with relief out of the corner of Peter’s eye, so Peter makes sure to show some strain too, taking a few deep breaths with his hands on his hips.

 

“There, that wasn’t so -”

 

Weasel slaps an envelope to Peter’s chest.

 

“Um,” Peter looks down at it, turning it over in his hands. “I’m off.”

 

“You’re  _ here _ ,” Weasel rebutts, shoulders to his ears and palms facing the ceiling. “Next time, maybe you’ll mind your own beeswax and skedaddle back to your mousehole.”   
  
“Pretty sure mice are known for being  _ nosy, _ ” Peter quips, plucking his bag back up and backing toward the door. “Regret the name yet?”

 

“I regret so much,” Weasel sighs.

 

Even though Peter should be irked by his last minute message run, he is full of adrenaline before he’s even creeping along a deserted brick wall at the edge of the city, making sure not to be seen. It isn’t a new feeling, but it feels better than it has since he was released. Being a dark silhouette in the night gives him a cold sweat sort of thrill, but there’s nothing behind it, no real purpose, except money, which is little more than a points on a scoreboard.

 

It had felt good, to help someone again. 

 

When he thinks about the nights he spent listening to the wailing of alarms in the distance, paralyzed by fear, he thinks of leaving a broken man on the floor. He thinks of how final a gunshot sounds, either in the distance or a few yards away. Either way, if he freezes, it’s over for someone.

 

Peter thinks about how similar a gunshot is - _ bang - _ to a gavel striking a sounding board. He remembers Ben’s advice in response to the former and May’s to the latter. It wasn’t “ _ give up”. _

 

Instead of picturing nasty headlines, he thinks of the children who will light up when they see him swinging overhead, of the people who will need him on their worst day, of the heroes and fellow vigilantes that might appreciate a helping hand, and - okay, he maybe also thinks about Jameson’s outraged face when gets the call in the morning.

 

On his way home, Peter hears sirens, and changes direction. 

  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dude the response to the last chapter floored me. i really hope you love this chapter just as much. definitely more angst this chapter but hopefully there's enough humor to balance it out? drunk wade was just...so fun.
> 
> please gift me with your feedback, i'm having such a good time with this fic and your support is a huge part of it <3


	3. bad penny

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> like a bad penny, our pasts always turn up

It usually isn’t Peter’s job to handle mystic ninjas, but it’s a slow night otherwise, and it’s not like he’s going to ignore the battle grunts of his fellow hero. Especially when, the closer he gets, the more difficult Daredevil’s breathing becomes. He always pushes himself too far, but Peter isn’t really one to talk - neither of them have every been known for their sense of self-preservation.

 

Peter lands against a wall in darkness nearby, assessing the situation as he crawls closer.

 

It’s four on one, and the devil looks worse for the wear. He’s dripping blood and getting knocked down time and time again, but he always manages to get back up.

 

Peter webs two of them by their feet and pulls hard enough to drag them back into the darkness and away from the other man, stringing them up.

 

He disarms them when they struggle, and wraps them up even more securely while Daredevil fends off the other two. The other hero kicks one hard in the torso, sending him flying toward Peter, who greets him cheerfully and spins him into a tight coil of web.

 

“You always get yourself into these situations,” Peter sighs dramatically as soon as all the bad guys are subdued, but he can’t hide the smile in his voice as he hangs there, upside down and smug.

 

Daredevil pants, but doesn’t look in his direction. He does that a lot, Peter remembers, giving him a kind of aloof air despite the fact he seems pretty fond of Spider-man.

 

“So it _is_ you.”

 

Peter flips over and onto the ground, posing with his hands on his hips.

 

“The one and only.”

 

Daredevil gives him a small, bloody-mouthed smile. Despite the fact that he’s clearly in pain, it rings as warm and familiar. Nostalgia settles in Peter’s stomach.

 

“There’s been some debate.”

 

Peter has tried to stay away from the news about his return. The Bugle had caught his eye, claiming that the darker suit proved he had come back a proper villain. No matter that he hadn’t done a single villainous thing, because of _course_ he hadn’t. Sensationalism didn’t care about the truth.

 

He closes the distance between them and sits cross-legged beside the man until he’s ready to move again. The ninjas are all secured for now, there’s no rush, and it’s _been_ a while since he was able to talk to anyone as Spider-man. Telling jokes as a distraction to petty criminals didn’t count.

 

“Because of my sabbatical, or because of the palette changes?”

 

“A bit of both, I believe.”

 

“Tell me the truth,” Peter says very seriously, leaning forward, “what do people think of my suit?”

 

Daredevil huffs in amusement, then in discomfort. “I’m not really the one to ask.”

 

“No fashion sense? That explains a lot. You’re definitely, ah, striking but kinda, _out there._ I guess the red is because you bleed so much though, huh? I don’t have that problem,” Peter brags in good humor, “This _does_ read as a little villainous, but it’s not my fault dark colors are perceived that way. I think Black Widow would like it. She’s a little hard to reach though.”

 

“Have you tried?”

 

“To reach Black Widow?” Peter scoffs. The question throws him off a bit, his mask shifting slightly as his eyebrows raise. “That was a joke. Why would I do that?”

 

“The Avengers have asked about you.”

 

Peter’s stomach flips.

 

He has no interest in facing the Avengers anytime soon. They don’t know his identity, it’s not like they’d _know_ he spent six months in prison. If he’s being fair, plenty of them are reformed criminals of a sort, but knowing that doesn’t make it easier. If anything, it makes him feel more pathetic by comparison, to know this is a hole that can be dug out of and to still be stuck in it.

 

“Really? That’s flattering, I didn’t think I was even on their radar,” Peter says, perhaps too cheerful now, as cover. “You can pass the news around if you like, that it’s the real me.”

 

“If you like,” Daredevil replies. “I wasn’t sure you’d want me to.”

 

Peter cocks his head. “Why not?”

 

Daredevil shrugs, then seems to instantly regret it. Ouch.

 

“You’re more secretive than most.”

 

“Not really,” Peter argues. “Plenty of heroes have secret identities -”

 

“You redesigned your suit so you’d be harder to find.”

 

“Yeah, but that’s just practicality.”

 

“Mhm. Then let’s talk about where you’ve been the last nine months.”

 

“Okay,” Peter concedes, crossing his arms. “maybe a _little_ more secretive. It’s complicated.”

 

Daredevil goes quiet for a moment, seeming satisfied that his point was made.

 

Peter considers changing the subject, maybe asking if he’s ready to try standing up, but can’t bring himself to. The clouds pass slow overhead, visible even the dark, hanging low enough to obscure the tops of nearby skyscrapers.

 

“Was it your choice?” Daredevil breaks the silence after a long moment.

 

“...No,” Peter admits, still watching the sky. “I didn’t want to leave the city. I wouldn’t have, if there was anything I could do.”

 

“Good. I wouldn’t hold it against you if you quit of your own volition, this is a hard life, but it didn’t seem consistent with what I know of you.”

 

“I’d tell you if I could, but it…” _would change your whole_ _opinion of me,_ Peter doesn’t say. Not to mention, it’d be fairly easy to link back to Peter Parker, considering the timeline. Anyone that looked too closely at Spider-man’s absence and Peter Parker’s arrest would see the commonalities.

 

He trails off, nerves jumbling in his stomach. It wasn’t a rational fear, but it was present all the same. Weasel believed him, and Daredevil just might too, as someone who worked outside the system, but the _Avengers_? Even if they believed him, what could they do but pity him?

 

The drugs had been found in his bag during a random class inspection - growing more and more common with the frequency of school shootings - and he couldn’t explain why they were there. They’d been discovered along with his T-shots, which _were_ his, which had been painted by the prosecutor as some kind of substance dependance. While they hadn’t managed to get any students to say that he’d been dealing, they’d pointed to him being a tutor as his opportunity to arrange meetings, and the under-the-table cash he made from said tutoring as probable profit.

 

It had been fairly ‘open and shut’, according to his lawyer. May had gotten a second, third, and fourth opinion, and the answers had all been the same. If he fought it, he could be in prison for years, set back even more, not to mention they’d be responsible for court fees in addition to whatever fine the judge saw fit to charge.

 

 _Was it your choice?_ Daredevil had asked. No, but Peter taken the plea; on paper, he was guilty.

 

“You’re not in trouble, are you?” Daredevil asks him, and Peter’s stomach does another somersault, this time at the concern in the older man’s voice.

 

“No, no, I’m fine,” He says, and it isn’t a total lie. “Things are going… they’re going. I’m glad to be back out here.”

 

“We’re glad to have you back.”

 

“Who’s we?”

 

“New York.”

 

“Speak for the whole city now, do you?”

 

“No, but I do listen to them,” Daredevil says, “Try to put off your next vacation, if you can.”

 

“You got it,” Peter laughs through the lump in his throat. He swallows it and moves along. “Ready to go see Claire? And don’t say ‘I don’t have to’. As much as I respect your independence, you weigh nothing to me and it’s practically on my way.”

 

“...She’ll want to see you anyway.”

 

“You think?”

 

“...We’ve been worried. All of us.”

 

“Oh.” All of them? Meaning all the New York based heroes? The Defenders, The Four, _and_ The Avengers? That seems like a bit much to Peter.

 

Peter picks the larger man up and has him hold onto his shoulders as he swings with one hand between buildings. It’s just a few miles and they make good time. Peter remembers the way easily. Making it through long hours in solitary required him to make use of his imagination, and he would often replay interactions he’d had with other heroes, with old friends, with May and Ben.

 

Sometimes he would redo them better than they happened, but that was his prerogative.

 

“Is that really surprising to you?”

 

“Is what surprising?” Peter asks, pretending to have forgotten the topic. He sets the man down on the fire escape carefully and starts lifting the window to Claire’s apartment,

 

Daredevil doesn’t let him get away with it.

 

“That we were worried.”

 

“Not really, I definitely pick up the slack, so it must have hurt your numbers,” Peter jokes, but it comes off wrong. “...Sorry. It was. I should have found a way to contact you. I guess I didn’t think about how I was leaving you guys in the dark.”

 

“Me, especially.”

 

Peter blinks. “Huh?”

 

“ _Again_ ,” Claire appears at her window before Peter can pry about the nonsensical statement, looking resigned. “Come in and set him on the bench there. Try not to bleed on everything.”

 

“He’s really good at that,” Peter agrees, picking Daredevil up again and doing as told. “Just like saying weird things only he’s amused by. That means it;’s not a real joke, you know that, right?”

 

“If you say so.”

 

“Is he concussed?” Peter asks Claire. “That would make the most sense. I tried to help, but there’s only so much I can do, sorry if there’s brain damage.”

 

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” Claire says, smirking.

 

“Hey,” Daredevil grumbles.

 

“Dude can take a punch, and just, _does_ , like a lot.”

 

“I’m well aware,” Claire snorts as she pulls up a kit she has prepared for this purpose.

 

Peter remembers her patching him up too after a particularly bad knifing, just a few months before his arrest. It wasn’t often that he actually got real medical treatment - if this counted as that - and it wasn’t something he liked to do often.

 

She didn’t pry about his identity, but the more he hung around, the more guilty he’d feel about not sharing it. Plus, she has a life. Daredevil needs her _often_ , and Peter has a healing factor. There are lines that have to be drawn, to keep his secret, and most of them have to do with isolating himself.

 

So Claire is for emergencies only.

 

“We’re glad you’re back,” Claire tells him, glancing at him and then back at Matt as she gets to work on cleaning his wounds. “Lots of kids around here went nuts when they saw you back.”

 

Peter feels himself getting choked up and he tries to play it cool.

 

“Glad to be back.”

 

“This guy could use your help,” Claire says sternly as Daredevil hisses in pain as she cleans a particularly deep wound. “I know you have your own side of town to think about, but -”

 

“Claire,” Daredevil mutters.

 

“What?” She whispers sharply. “Every other night is like this. You already had your hands full with the Hand, and now -”

 

“ _Claire,_ ” he repeats again, more gruffly.

 

“Now what?” Peter prompts, “I’m not knee deep in anything yet, and I want to help. Don’t be stubborn. What’s going on?”

 

“...I’m not sure yet,” Daredevil admits. “Once I do, I’ll find you.”

 

“You better,” Claire and Peter say together, and then Peter holds out his fist for a bump. She raises an eyebrow at him, indicating her somewhat occupied fingers.

 

“Right,” Peter gives her finger-guns instead, and starts backing toward the window. “It’s been good catching up, but unless there’s anything else, I’m going to head out -”

 

“Wait, I have something for you,” Claire tells the bleeding man before Peter can slip through the frame. She nods in the direction of something. “A business card on the table, right there.”

 

Peter plucks it up, eyeing it curiously.

 

“A lawyer?” Peter’s feels his heartbeat pick up and is irritated with it. It’s not like she can possibly know anything about his law difficulties. At least, not outside of the usual vigilante troubles.

 

“A lawyer that’s familiar with the underbelly of the city, especially when it comes to our kind of work,” Daredevil tells him, voice thick with restraint when Claire begins stitching.

 

“I don’t know your situation,” Claire says, quiet, looking at her work and not at him. “and I know you like your privacy. I get it. But promise me you’ll call Murdock if you need to. The government is cracking down on...a lot, to be fair, but heroes especially. If anything happens and you need someone on your side, that’s the guy. ”

 

Daredevil is quiet, but Peter thinks he spots a quirk of the lip under the stubble. Peter nods slowly, tucking the card into the pocket at the small of his back as he does so.

 

“I promise.” Peter says, finally easing out the window for good.

  


The rest of the night is smooth sailing. He slips into the second window of the night, May’s a little after four and carefully packs all of his spidey and ‘sneak sneak’ wear into his backpack again. He uses it as a pillow and collapses into the couch without pulling it out. He always sleeps better after patrolling, after he gets to burn off some energy and put a few fears to rest.

 

He doesn’t wake up until May does.

 

“I didn’t hear the door last night,” May yawns.

 

“I oiled the hinges so they don’t squeak so bad,” Peter tells her, which isn’t a lie, but definitely not the reason that she didn’t hear the door. It’s harder sneaking out when he doesn’t have his own room, but there’s not a whole lot to be done about it until he gets them a bigger place.

 

May thinks he should be saving for college instead, but he’s done the math. She thinks he’s only making twenty dollars an hour, so half of every paycheck is going into a bank account she doesn’t know about. He’s hoping that, in a year or two, once his credit is better, he can secure her a better place to live - Empire State University is too expensive without a scholarship. Maybe he can take some community college classes eventually, but he’s trying to be realistic.

 

“I’ll make breakfast!” Peter volunteers, popping up from the couch.

 

“Well,” she says sleepily, “I’m not going to argue with that.”

 

They don’t have all the ingredients they do in Helga’s kitchen, but he manages to make a pretty great breakfast stir fry just the same.

 

He’s pretty proud of himself - before his job at Hellhouse, the most creative thing he’d ever cooked was buffalo mac’n’cheese. Which was, as advertised, just box mac’n’cheese with some buffalo sauce in it for some flare. Of course, his skills only really have to do with pub food and related dishes - but still, May is hardly complaining.

 

“You know, I’m starting to like this job,” May tells him wryly after taking a bite of hash. “If this is what it takes to get you to learn how to cook, maybe it’s worth it.”

 

Peter grins, “I cook better than you now and it’s been less than two months.”

 

“Hey there, let’s not disrespect your elders,” May chastises playfully. “Let’s be fair, Peter, you started cooking better than me the moment you learned a single dish from - Helga, was it?”

 

“Yep,” Peter says, “Don’t sell yourself short, Aunt May. You are the _master_ at following box directions and putting cheese on bagels in the oven.”

 

She snorts. “Remember what Ben used to say? Too many cooks spoil the stew -”  


“- but it’s already spoiled if the cook is _you,_ ” Peter rolled his eyes as he said it. “It’s not even funny! Why did he say it so much? He gave you such a hard time.”

 

“Like only good friends can,” she says. “I gave him back just as much shit about his handyman skills. You didn’t get that from him.”

 

“ _Language_ ,” Peter says, in his best approximation of Captain America.

 

“Oh, I’m sure you hear far worse at _Hellhouse,_ ” she says knowingly. Hearing her say the name of where he works is odd, but not as much as he expected somehow.

 

“That doesn’t mean I want to come home to it too!”

 

“You’re just giving your aunt a hard time now. I have a weak heart, you know.”

 

“No, you don’t.”

 

“I _could._ ”

 

“But you don’t. That was Ben’s thing.”

 

“He always thought that’s what would get him. I guess I can’t use the same excuse, huh. At least not if my dearest nephew is going to challenge me about it.”

 

“Sure will.”

 

“Drat.”

 

“Speaking of his lack of Fix It gene, did you know Uncle Ben tried to teach me stuff I’d already learned from YouTube videos?” Peter snickers, shaking his head. “Like how to hang a door, and clean the gutters?”

 

“Oh, _no._ I hope you went along with it.”

 

“Well, yeah, he was trying so hard,” Peter says when she’s settled down. “I know he didn’t really get all of the stuff I was going through, but he believed I knew what I was talking about, and he tried to do whatever he thought ‘father and son’ bonding was. Took me to a Yankees game even though I don’t like sports, but he _tried._ I never felt like he was disappointed.”

 

“Even though he couldn’t say ‘penny for your thoughts’ and have it be a pun anymore,” May tells him fondly, patting her mouth with a napkin. “That was the _only_ thing he was disappointed by.”

 

“He had plenty of other dad jokes up his sleeve though.”

 

“Oh, always. He was the king of bad jokes.”

 

“I thought they were funny.”

 

She takes his hand. “You don’t have to pretend anymore, sweetheart, he’s dead.”

 

Peter laughs in earnest, squeezing her hand in his.

 

It’s the first time they’ve talked about Ben without ending up in tears. Peter marks the calendar.

  


One evening a few weeks later Hellouse’s single server, who only moonlights on Friday and Saturday so Weasel doesn’t have to get out from behind the bar, no-call no-shows. Peter has only ever seen them in passing, on their way in or out of the kitchen. He remembers what they look like vaguely, but they’d never even made eye contact with him.

 

Helga shrugs when Weasel gripes at them about it, as if to say ‘good riddance’.

 

“So I need you out front, Mouse, ” Weasel tells him, rubbing his temples. “Just for tonight. Don’t complain, you’ll get tips in addition to your usual rate.”

 

“I thought you said -”

 

“Yeah, I know what I said,” Weasel snaps. “I don’t like it, but here’s what you’re going to do. You aren’t going to be polite. You’re going to furrow your stupid brow, bring them their goddamn tray, and not say a single fuckin’ word. Channel Helga.”

 

She scowls at him.

 

“Yes, _exactly._ ”

 

The patrons are just what Peter expects. Most of them muscular and heavily armed, boisterous and drunk or brooding in corners. The quiet ones barely look up at Peter, but the loud ones are more problematic - they set off his spidey sense at least once an hour. One of them throws a dart terribly, another one brandishes a loaded gun for show, while others throw knives or even just swing their arms around too wide when they talk. One of them even tries to grope him when he passes.

 

Peter catches a thick wrist in his hand and squeezes hard enough to bruise. He glances over at where Weasel is at the bar, but he isn’t looking this way at the moment, busy mixing a drink.

 

It’s for the best. He’d probably never let him out of the pit again if he knew.

 

“You think I work here because I’m what, _passive_?”

 

He turns his gaze back to the man in his hold. He has a big trench coat on like he’s hiding something under them, dead eyes, and literal mandibles instead of a normal mouth.

 

Usually he wouldn’t judge -there are plenty of mutated and scared people in Hellhouse - but combined with the hungry expression on his face, he’s _freaky_. Peter refuses to flinch.

 

“You think Weasel is stupid enough to hire someone who can’t handle themselves?” Peter asks, not bothering to go for sinister. Instead, he “He might be insulted. In fact, he might be _so_ insulted that he’d ban you from this place entirely. What do you think?”

 

The man rears back a little, looking ready to lash out.

 

“Are you _looking_ for a career change?” Peter asks, blinking several times in quick succession, going for something too blatantly coy to actually be taken as such.

 

As he’d hoped, playing up his harmless appearance is effective, at least a fair bit more so than forcing a gruff, angry expression and getting laughed out of the room. Especially when combined with a show of strength; he listens carefully to the man’s wrist bone when it starts to creak under his grip, not wanting to do any real damage. At least, not yet.

 

“Shit, you’re no fuckin’ fun,” the man sneers, making the group around him laugh and shove his would-be assailant after Peter releases him and walks away.

 

His heart is pounding, but he’s okay. That _sucked_ , but he’s okay.

 

Peter gets busy, and by the time he gets back around to that side of the bar, the man is long gone.

 

For the most part, the night is uneventful, except for the extra tips that Peter gets, which is a pretty nice chunk of change. A few customers seem like they’re going to give him shit here and there, but then glance toward the bar and think better of it. Peter decides he doesn’t want to know what Weasel is doing over there - it’ll probably just make him self-conscious.

 

More often than not, they seem entertained at the sight of him, making jokes that might be insulting if they didn’t just seem like big awkward toddlers, fumbling for some common ground. There are a few that Peter even exchanges words with, offers his alias, and laughs with them about how fitting it is for him. He usually tosses in something teasing about their name too, which is almost never the norm - some of them are cool, but others are ostentatious or downright gross.

 

Weasel barks his name from his place behind the bar whenever he notices him talking.

 

“This isn’t social hour, move along!” and “Keep your dumb head down.” and “Did you forget how to fucking scowl?” and “Do I need to get you a fucking mask? A muzzle, maybe?” are among the things he spits at him throughout the night.

 

To the last one, louder the more irritated Weasel gets, Peter responds with a straight-faced,

 

“Kinky.”

 

He gets a good cackle out of everyone who hears, and Weasel’s forehead vein is popping.

 

At the end of the night, he realizes he’s been looking for Wade, scanning the place every once in a while, which is silly for several reasons. The most prominent one is that he doesn’t actually know the man, and the impression that had been made was not exactly a good one.

 

(Harmless and funny, but ultimately not great. Picking up soiled grown men wasn’t Peter’s idea of a good time, but he also couldn’t entirely blame him for being in such an awful state.)

 

Another reason is that he wouldn’t need to _look_ for him, if he were present. He’s loud enough that he would make himself known without the effort. He supposes he shouldn’t be worried. Weasel confirmed the guy was immortal, so it’s not like he can commit suicide, no matter how depressed he is. Which, Peter considers, is pretty depressing in it’s own way.

 

Peter shakes his head when he catches himself at it again.

 

The stress on his spidey sense leaves him tuckered out when they finally get slow enough that he can retreat back to the dish pit. He barrels through the dishes as quickly as he can, playing his workout mix to keep himself motivated, but even with Helga helping with the sweeping and mopping, he still gets out over an hour late.

 

“I got next week covered, so don’t get too used to the tips,” Weasel tells him gruffly. He looks frazzled and exhausted, slumped at the bar with a drink in his hand.

 

“Already?”

 

“Yeah,” Weasel actually manages a weary smirk. “Let’s just say we’re _lucky_ to have her.”

 

Peter waits, forehead creasing, for an explanation that never comes.

 

“...It’s not a joke if there’s no way I can understand the reference. You must know that. You aren’t comedically illiterate, so why are you pretending to be? Why do people keep doing that? Am I missing something, or is it an old person thing? Because - yeah, _yeah_ , I’m going."

  


A few days later, he hears the man that had tried to grab him in the bar. Even from the back with his headphones on, Peter picks up the sound of his voice. Like learning a new word, he notices him without trying.

 

He hears the man’s name, Jimmy, and learns that he works for the mob as an enforcer.

 

He gets a little sick listening to the guy talk, he’s _way_ too into his job, so he tries not to hear too much. Just enough so that he knows how to avoid him, but it’s still too much. His violence does seem limited to other criminals, but it’s a small consolation.

 

It’s the first time that Peter’s truly wanted to go back on the whole ‘confidentiality’ thing, because Jimmy not the type of person he wants on the streets. He wishes he didn’t know about his existence, or rather, ponders a way Spider-man can stumble upon him. Too bad the man hadn’t been stupid enough to talk details just yet.

 

He turns up his music, and is glad that Jimmy isn’t a regular.

  


The next time he sees Wade, it’s a couple hours before his shift.

 

May has to leave early for work, so Peter goes to work early too. He’s started doing that on occasion just to have quiet reading time. Hellhouse is a calming environment when it isn’t full of people, and after almost his first sixty days, Weasel had given him a key so that he could open without Weasel having to get out of bed.

 

He’s surprised to see Wade there, sitting at the bar and drinking something bright pink with a tiny umbrella sticking out of it. He has his mask down most of the way, just folded up over his lips so he can slurp through a neon green curly straw.

 

He waves at Peter, and Peter waves back. It’s a fair bet which one is more awkward.

 

Peter sits down at the other end of the bar. Wade shifts in his seat but for the first half hour or so, doesn’t initiate any conversation. That seems out of character, and Peter is curious, but he also _really_ wants to finish what he’s reading. He can’t get fully invested in it though with Wade’s nervous energy vibrating in his eyeline.

 

Peter looks up and meets his white eyes of his mask, raising his eyebrows to prompt him.

 

“Sooooo. Whatcha reading?” Wade finally asks him, fiddling with his thumbs. Peter is surprised again, having expected Wade to direct the conversation into a weird, rambling direction like he had during his conversations at the bar. He’s kind of excited to be asked about it.

 

“It’s an essay by Dr. Bruce Banner.”

 

“You mean the Hulk’s alter ego _?_ No wonder Weasel likes you. Nerd nepotism. That kind of stuff is way out of my league, like the Hulk in general. What’s it about?”

 

“It’s on the coordination of eukaryotic cilia and flagella in relation to mutations in the modern age,” Peter answers, and realizes that probably sounds like a bunch of babble to anyone that isn’t familiar, which Wade said he isn’t. “Which is just, kind of what to expect in the next stage of human evolution, regarding coordination and locomotion, especially considering changes in environment as rapid as climate change is predicted to - wow, I’m not really helping clarify, am I?”

 

“Not really! But that’s okie dokie, I’m more of a tongue guy myself, and by that I mean _languages_. But you? You’re a regular smarty-pants!” Wade cooes, looking impressed even through the mask he’s wearing somehow. “You don’t have to entertain me, no sir. Don’t let me interrupt you, Darwin, I’m just waiting on Weasel to get back. Go on and do your sweet science thang.”

 

He seems like there’s more he wants to say, shifting in his seat, almost _wiggling._ Someone so tall and built, not to mention _piled_ with weapons, has no business acting like this. His entire demeanor makes up for his daunting appearance, and Peter can’t help but be put at ease.

 

“No worries,” Peter says, rubbing the back of his neck. “It’s good to see you, by the way. I was wondering if you were avoiding me.”

 

Wade looks sheepish. “It _did_ take me awhile to want to show my face after that.”

 

“So I was _right._ ”

 

“Is that such a surprise, Tesla?”

 

Peter grins cheekily, “I guess not. Glad to have it come from you though. Weasel seems to think I can’t be intimidating even if I try.”

 

“He’s definitely wrong,” Wade tells him, “World’s best mercenary right here, totally hid from you for weeks. Can confirm. Very abashed, much fear.”

 

Peter snorts, “Alright, I’m going to keep reading now, doge.”

 

“Aw, you _got it!_ ”

 

“Of course I do, nerds love memes. Statistically, you’d be hard pressed to find a nerd that isn’t familiar with most popular memes, though we might need a bigger sample size.”

 

“Yeah, that was a super nerdy thing to say.”

 

“Oh, hush.”

 

Wade does, and they fall into a comfortable silence where Peter continues to read and Wade plays Candy Crush on his phone.

  


Having ADHD doesn’t particularly mean his attention span is short, although it can. It depends on the circumstances, on whether his brain is bouncing at light speed from one concept to the next, or if it’s stuck on one train of thought. His spidey sense can cut through the hyperfocus, but otherwise it’s like the world is passing by without him. Especially when he’s really into reading something.

 

Like he is now, the rest of his surroundings might as well be underwater. It’s a calm place for his brain to be, and yeah, maybe he shouldn’t feel so at ease at Hellhouse, of all places. Weasel would probably chastise him for it, but after three months, six days a week, working doubles more often than not, this place is as familiar to him as Aunt May’s apartment.

 

Besides, it’s not like they’re even open yet.

 

_“ -ummm, are you even hearing me?”_

 

He flips the page in his essay.

 

_“Hellooo?”_

 

His spidey sense doesn’t go off, which means there must not be any real threat, but then suddenly the spell breaks and it’s like the volume has been turned all the way up.

 

 _“_ ** _Anyone in there,_** **_Einstein_** _?”_

 

All he knows in that instant is that there’s someone behind him and that he needs them to not be. _There is someone behind him_ and they weren’t there the last time he’d tuned into reality. There’s someone behind him and he doesn’t have time, can’t stop it from happening, it’s happened

 

More than that, the worst of it, what seems to rip him out of his head and spits him out into a place that feels all wrong and there’s no warning at all and the someone behind him is -

 

_\- they’re calling him -_

 

Peter’s body is moving.

 

His elbow jerks defensively, strikes backward, without his mind holding him back like he usually would in a normal fight. He isn’t expecting an attack, and he didn’t even have the warning that his spidey sense usually offers him, so his entire being is alight, a different but not completely foreign alarm going off in his head.

 

He feels bones crunch around the path his elbow carves, what feels like a whole set of ribs giving way, and then the body is gone entirely.

 

Because it’s crashing into the far wall with a sickening _bang._  
  
  


**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ouch. idk man i'm a little fascinated by peter and wade having less than ideal beginnings in this fic. things going a bit shit but ultimately ending up okay is kind of a running theme here
> 
> skip isn't like, a plot point, but it's part of who peter is. i've been toying with the idea of deadpool cycling through various nicknames and accidentally calling him 'Einstein' for a while. 
> 
> but also, domesticity with aunt may! chatting with daredevil and claire! ! a couple plot threads! some more banter!
> 
> can't wait to hear what you think~


	4. bad word

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> there are things we don't say out loud

“What the fuck is my life.”

 

Peter barely gets a minute before Weasel walks into Hellhouse to find Wade crumpled on the floor after being thrown into the wall. He had fallen onto a table unevenly, meaning it immediately tipped and toppled him over onto the floor.

 

“I’m sorry, I’m _so_ sorry -”

 

Peter hears himself apologizing so profusely he doesn’t have time to catch his breath. He’s taken a few steps toward Wade, but is afraid to get any closer, half expecting Weasel to kick him out of the bar entirely at the sight. The proof is lying a few feet away, but how could he have _done_ this?

 

“What did I do to deserve this?” Weasel groans, as if he’s the one that

 

“I didn’t mean to,” Peter says, on a loop. “I’m so, so, _so_ sorry, I didn’t even -”

 

“I’m going to assume by your reaction that Wade didn’t deserve this.”

 

Peter looks at him sharply and blanches.

 

“No, of course not!”

 

“So he didn’t like,” Weasel rubs his temples. “try anything weird?”

 

“No! He just - he surprised me, in a bad way, I just, he was behind me all of a sudden and I wasn’t expecting him to be there, and it just - god, I’m not explaining this right.”

 

Weasel holds up his hands. “Didn’t think so, but he’s insane, so I gotta ask. Thing is? If he didn’t deserve it then I _don’t want to know_.”

 

“What do you mean?” Peter doesn’t compute. “Isn’t he your friend? He’s seriously hurt!”

 

“Yeah, because you flung him across the room _without_ _trying_ , Mouse, jesus fuck.”

 

Peter recoils. “I didn’t -”

 

“Mean to, yeah. But you did it, and pretty impressively too. Wade’ll heal, but I’m pretty sure this breaches the whole ‘If you’re a mutant or some shit, I don’t want to know’ thing.”

 

For an instant, Peter is terrified he’s going to be fired for this. Why _wouldn’t_ he be? He kind of deserves it. More than kind of. What the _hell._

 

“Now,” Weasel goes on. “I’m going to go drink until I forget this ever happened.”

 

Weasel never does act exactly the way Peter expects him to. He still doesn’t release his breath, but an indignant protest still manages to tumble out of him.

 

“But the _wall -_ ”

 

“So fix it!” Weasel throws up his arms. “But as far as I’m concerned, it’s always been that way.”

 

“You’re really just going to - to look the other way?” Peter croaks, reeling back in confusion. “You aren’t going to ask any questions?”  


Weasel stares at him for a full five seconds, deadpan, then blinks slowly.

 

“About what?”

 

Peter’s breath rushes out of him, and doesn’t want to come back in right away. He doesn’t quite blame it. Inside Peter is a disaster location at the moment.

 

“...Wow.”

 

“I know, I’m incredible,” Weasel drawls, starting to walk around the bar. “Now, I want that drink. You want a drink, Mouse? You look like you could use a drink.”

 

Peter kind of wants one, but instead he says, “I’m not twenty-one yet.”

 

“Shit, that’s right. More for me.”

 

While Weasel starts to poor himself a drink, Peter sinks to the floor a few feet from where the mercenary is still lying. He still can’t believe this happened. It feels wrong, out of place, like a dream. All that time in prison, terrified of something like this happening, _this_ was it?

 

He’d spent so much time scared of causing suspicion, by working out too long in his cell or moving too quickly when someone tried to intimidate him. There were even times when guards had hit their batons against the wall, close enough that his spidey sense screamed at him to catch it. There were times when they went overboard tearing two girls away from each other in a fight, and times where they hadn’t stepped in at all, and he’d had to stand by and watch.

 

And now, he’d hurt someone just because they called him _Einstein?_ It had been a decade, shouldn’t he be over it by now? Why _that_ of all things? What was wrong with him?

 

“I can’t believe I did this,” Peter barely hears himself mumbling to himself over the sound of his heartbeat in his ears. “Just because of. After all this time? Am I really that pathetic?”

 

The body near him wheezes, making Peter jolt.

 

“Pretty sure that was the opposite of pathetic."

 

“Wade!” Peter scrambles closer to inspect the man. He coughs blood into the crook of his arm and Peter winces. “You’re _alive_.”

 

“Yeah _duh_ , that’s my whole thing. Didn’t Weasel explain that to you? I was pretty sure he did but I was also as drunk as it’s physically possible to be without dying, although I _did_ die of alcohol poisoning - anyway, what I’m saying is, I _could_ be wrong.”

 

“He did, but it’s different seeing it,” Peter curls his fingers into the fabric of his jeans near the knees, relieved and yet also definitely not. “If you were anyone else -”

 

“But I wasn’t, so it’s all good!” Wade coughs again. “See? Less blood this time! This body isn’t good for much else. Anyway, I shouldn’t have invaded your personal space like that.”

 

“No, it wasn’t your fault,” Peter insists, eyes widening. He feels nauseous. “I really, _really_ didn’t mean to. I can’t believe - that’s never happened before.”

 

Wade waves his hand dismissively and starts sitting up.  


“Don’t worry about it.”

 

Peter laughs. Or, almost does. It doesn’t really sound like a laugh should, too tight and strained to constitute genuine amusement.

 

“I don’t know how that’s possible. I _killed_ you.”

 

Wade scoffs. “Nah, my ribs punctured my lungs but that’s a slow way to go, so I healed before I died. You’re totally off the hook, little Mouse.”

 

It hurts to draw in a breath, so Peter decides against it.

 

“I’m _really_ not.”

 

“I said you are, and I think it’s up to me,” Wade shrugs, “I forgive you for shattering my ribcage to smithereens, if you’ll forgive me for, aaaah, whatever I did that caused it.”

 

“You didn’t know,” Peter tells him, hating the way he sounds. Something is seriously wrong with him. “I didn’t know.”

 

Wade frowns, looking thoughtful even through the mask.

 

“You don’t seem the type to let that kinda strength go unchecked.”

 

“I haven’t,” Peter agrees, shaking his head and then cutting that out, because it makes him dizzy. “I mean, not in ages, and never like that. It’s not. I _wouldn't.”_

 

Wade nods, growing a bit calculating as he looks Peter over. He tilts his head.

 

“Something trigger you?”

 

“Huh?”

 

“Trigger. Set you off. Bring up a shitty feeling. Something I did?”

 

“It isn’t.” Peter cringes, starting to feel light-headed. “It should be that big of a deal.”

 

Wade’s smile grows a bit sad and Peter hates it. Why is he feeling sad about this? That is not what he should be feeling. He should be pissed, or at least annoyed. Peter is. He can’t stand what he’s done, but he _especially_ can’t stand why he’s done it.

 

“We don’t get to decide that, darling.”

 

“...Einstein.” It feels gross to say, but Peter pushes through it. He doesn’t want Wade to call him that again, considering his penchant for nicknames, and he wants him to understand what a fluke it was - not anything about the mercenary personally. “You just. Called me Einstein, and. Bad association. It’s stupid, it’s not like I haven’t heard his name since - you know, in _school,_ and stuff - and I’ve never lost control like that.”

 

“Note to self: don’t call Mouse _Einstein_ , got it,” Wade’s voice is serious when he says that, then returns to something lighter an instant later. “Didn’t help I got right up on you, I’m sure! Shoulda known that’d be disconcerting.”

 

That’s the opposite of what Peter wanted him to think. He’d actually been fairly ay ease in Wade’s company.

 

Peter scowls. “I’m not scared of you.”

 

Wade grins roguishly. “No? Here I thought you were smart.”

 

“Ha.” That one sounds more like a laugh, thank god.

 

“Sorry about that. I was just trying to see what you were reading. You were all zoned out, so I got closer. I’ve been told I sometimes have a boundary problem.”

 

This whole time, Weasel’s been mumbling to himself. Peter hasn’t been able to hear him over the sound of his heartbeat, which is unusual. The rush of blood in his ears calms enough for him to tune back in, but only halfway, since the man is clearly just talking to himself.

 

_“No one ever listens to Weasel.”_

 

“Don’t apologize to me,” Peter tells Wade I almost killed you.”

 

“Take a deep breath for me, Mouse.”

 

_“Oh, ignore ol’ Weasel. He doesn’t know what he’s talking about.”_

 

Peter is a little outraged by the request, and also at how difficult it is to follow the direction. He manages to inhale, but not very deeply.

 

“...I almost _killed_ you, and you’re worried about _me_.”

 

“ _It’s not like he people watches for a fuckin’ living or anything.”_

 

“I can’t die and heal like a dream, so I’m already good as new.” Wade points at him. “But you, sweetums, are having a panic attack.”

 

“He’s _what,_ ” Weasel hisses, directed at them this time.

 

“What? No. No, I’m not.”

 

“Yeah, you really are,” Wade disagrees, not unkindly. “You never had one before?”

 

“ _No_ ,” Peter argues right back, but it doesn’t come out as irritated as he intends, just edgy _._ Which isn’t helping his case. But it’s ridiculous, he’s been in way more stressful situations without panicking. “and I’m not having one now. I’m just. A bit freaked out. It was. _Jarring._ Yeah, that’s it. I was jarred. Anyone else would have _died._ ”

 

He cannot impress upon that enough. Talk about demoralizing. It’s actually a little offensive that Wade is calling this perfectly normal amount of anxiety an _attack._

 

“Not arguing that,” Wade says, too upbeat to be fair. “Any reason you might be more sensitive?”

 

“No,” Peter answers immediately.  


“Really.” Wade seems dubious, his voice jumping up an octave.

 

“Yeah, _really_ .” Peter wants it to be snappish, but it doesn’t have enough _umph_ to get the point across. He’s annoyed, with himself and with Wade, not _scared_. This isn’t what scared feels like.

 

“‘Cause Weasel mentioned you worked front of shift earlier this week.”

 

“He sure did,” Weasel chimes in again just to take Wade’s side, like a traitor.

 

“So?”

 

“ _Soooo_ , that’s a drastic change from the back. Anyone give you a hard time?”

 

Peter’s eyes dart toward the ceiling briefly, remembering Jimmy. That hadn’t even been that big of a deal. Peter had been kind of bad ass in defending himself, actually. It had been nothing, in the end.

 

“I handled it.”

 

Wade’s eyes narrow sharply, even with the mask.

 

“That wasn’t the question, pumpkin.”

 

“Mouse, _you little shit_ , I told you to tell me if shit happened.”

 

“It barely happened!”

 

Wade’s voice is completely blank now, which is somewhat unsettling.

 

“They hurt you? Try to touch you?”

 

“They didn’t get to,” Peter mutters, averting his eyes.  “I _handled_ it.”

 

“I’m sure you did. Strong guy like you. Bet you set the mother fucker straight.”

 

Peter looks back at him, too quickly. His head spins, but his mouth still works.

 

“Don’t patronize me.”  


“I wouldn’t do that,” Wade says, like he means it. “You feeling dizzy?”

 

“How’d you -?”

 

“You swayed a bit, and it’s one of the symptoms. Of _panic attacks_.” He reaches forward with a gloved hand, but doesn’t touch Peter. Instead, he lets his hand hover near where Peter’s are clutching the denim of his pants, to clearly highlight how still Wade’s is by comparison. “Mhm. Trembling too, pretty as it is. Your heart beating fast?”

 

“I’m just,” Peter tries to find words that don’t support the ‘panic attack’ theory, but keeps falling short. “It’s not that serious. I’m just worried. That’s all.”

 

“Worry is anxiety, babe. Panic attacks don’t always mean you gotta breathe into a bag or clutch your chest or feel like you’re choking. It can, but not always. Mine feel like I’m being strangled by someone as strong as you are, but that’s just my own personal brand of hell.”

 

“Fuck.” Peter grimaces, relenting. He doesn’t curse much, but he’s starting to get this isn’t a typical circumstance, and Wade keeps being _right._ “...Then maybe I’m having a panic attack.”

 

“You betcha,” Wade grins. “Might not be the first one then?”

 

“Maybe not. I dunno.”

 

“All good, baby boy. Totally normal. Take another breath for me.”

 

Peter does. It stutters inward but his lungs let him take it this time, coarse as it feels. It shouldn’t ever be this hard to breath. But then, he shouldn’t (almost) kill people because they nickname him after one of the greatest scientists known to man. He shouldn’t _ever_ react like that, no matter what, and part of him still can’t fathom that it happened. He’s been powerful for a quarter of his life now, and he’s never, no matter the circumstances, been so -

 

 _Irresponsible._ The thought is deafening, but it also makes him want to laugh.

 

“Am I going crazy?”

 

Somehow, Wade’s eyebrows raise visibly through his mask. Peter wants to study the material and figure out how he’s doing that. He’s always hidden behind the inherent stoicism that his own mask provides, but Wade’s expressions somehow shine through.

 

His scarred face had been even more expressive, he remembers suddenly. His eyes, especially.

 

“You? Nah.”

 

Weasel scoffs somewhere behind him.

 

“I think I am,” Peter maintains.

 

“That’s another symptom,” Wade chuckles. “You’re not crazy.”

 

“Really?” Peter feels the need to check.

 

“Really really. I should know, I’m the craziest guy I’ve ever met!”

 

Peter lets out a strangled laugh. “That’s reassuring.”

 

“I know, right? I’m an expert on crazy. You don’t got any voices in your head do you?”

 

“Well, no. I guess you’re talking about White and Yellow?”

 

Weasel curses and Peter hears the tinkling of glass as he pours another drink. As they continue chatting, Peter feels the words come a little bit easier, slowly catching the pieces of himself and securing them into place.

 

“Shiiiit. I told you about them?”

 

“Yeah, when you were drunk,” Peter says, getting a breath in. “I don’t ...have _voices_ , but I apparently almost kill people when they sneak up behind me.”

 

“You said that doesn’t usually happen, and I’m inclined to believe you, Cutie Patootie,” Wade tilts his head, “You don’t think it’s just because of the nasty customer and the whole ‘Einstein’ thing?”

 

“Maybe,” Peter runs through the interaction in his head again. He had barely registered there being another person in the room, even though he’d been talking to Wade minutes before. “The threat kind of came out of nowhere, and I...overcompensated.”

 

“Yuh _think?_ ” Weasel snorts.

 

“I guess maybe I got too comfortable.”

 

Wade stares. “Around _me?_ ”

 

“That’s it, I’m out,” Weasel is slurring, and Peter wonders how many drinks he went through. “Let the merc with a weakness for sweet things and cool powers befriend the most adorable mutant felon to ever walk in this shithole. Why not? What could _possibly_ go wrong?”

 

“Not a mutant, technically,” Peter corrects thoughtlessly.

 

“Don’t care!” Weasel cries out, stomping toward his office. “Don’t want to know! If you’re ‘um, actually’-ing me, then you’re doing peachy fuckin’ keen. _Leaving now!_ ”

 

“Wait, felon? This muffin went to prison?” Wade gapes at him. “The fuck? How does that even work? Don’t they ever some sort of cute-immunity system? Look at those _dimples._ I mean, you wouldn’t put a puppy in prison. Or any baby mammal.”

 

“Pretty speciesist of you,” Peter chastises, flushing in a way he blames on the anxiety, because he can do that now. “You’re forgetting about geckos and penguins, just to name a couple.”

 

“You’re so right,” Wade gasps melodramatically, “I’m a _monster_.”

 

“I hate both of you,” Weasel says just before slamming the door to his office.

 

Despite how loud the resounding _bang_ is and how tired Peter is after the panic attack, he feels better than he has any right to, considering the circumstances. Wade gets him a glass of water, then takes out a deck of cards, and they play Rummy until Helga shows up to start the work day.

  


On Friday, Peter looks up from his dishes when someone new walks into the kitchen. She’s tall and dark skinned and not even wearing non-slip shoes, but she walks like she’s never fallen in her life.

 

“Sup,” she says, nodding in his direction, then at Helga. Helga nods without breaking stride as she peels potatoes like a champion.

 

“Hi,” Peter says back, which is awkward, but pretty girls do that to him sometimes. Alright, most of the time. “You’re the new server, I guess?”

 

“Yep,” She hooks her thumbs in her jeans and looks him over. “I’m Domino.”

 

“Mouse,” Peter tells her, holding up his wet gloves. “I’d shake your hand, but, you get it.”

 

“Ew,” she agrees blandly. “Let’s don’t, and say we did.”

 

“Deal. Good to meet you, finally. Weasel makes a ton of cryptic statements about you, y’know.”

 

“Weasel’s a weirdo,” She shrugs, “But this job pays well, so.”

 

“That it does,” Peter agrees, then nods toward the trash. “We take turns with the trash, by the way. Take it out the back door, just there. I know you’re just here Friday and Saturday, but one of them is yours. So, your pick.”

 

She smiles with all of her teeth, perfectly white and straight. “How about we flip for it?”

 

“I don’t have any change on me,” Peter answers, then before she can offer one of her own, he continues, slowly. “Also, something tells me that’s not a good bet to be making with you.”

 

“Damn, you’re not stupid.” She snaps her fingers. “Fine, Saturdays it is then.”

  


After work one evening a few weeks later, he’s delivering a message in a particularly grungy alley in a familiar part of town. There are an abundance of homeless people huddled together around a campfire nearby, and many of the cars parked in the area are stuffed with belongings.

 

He’s required to do community service for the next year, and he’d chosen to work at an LGBT+ center close to here on Sunday and Wednesday mornings, mostly helping with cleaning and moving boxes of donations. Sometimes he helped in the kitchen too, since he wasn’t hopeless in that area anymore, or even helping some of the kids with math homework.

 

The shadows hide him well as he crawls by and watches from above. Some of these people have been displaced recently, while others have made homes of cardboard and plastic sheets. It will get cold in a few months, an some will migrate to shelters. Others will freeze to death.

 

His chest aches for the people here, and for the people he’d met through the center.

 

Peter is well aware that he’s lucky, even as impoverished as he’s been most of his life, even with the false drug charges, even with uncle Ben passing the way he had. May can still work, but for how long? If he hadn’t found a job at Hellhouse, he’d be one paycheck away from the streets. Prison was harsh for transgender people, but the streets were even worse. Trans kids were kicked out of the home and then they disappeared or were found dead.

 

As difficult as his life had been in some ways, Parker Luck had been relatively good to him.

 

A scrawny man in a hoodie takes a brick over to an ATM and Peter cringes at how bad an idea that is. There are cameras, after all, and those things are getting harder and harder to break into. Maybe he thinks he can disappear quickly enough not to be caught.

 

“Maybe _don’t_ do that?” Peter offers lightly, making the youths jump. He webs the brick out of his hand and sets it down on the sidewalk as he approaches. “Just a suggestion?”

 

“Police!” He yells over his shoulder, and Peter hears the sound of several feet scurrying frantically.

 

Peter flinches and holds up his hands. “I’m _not_ the police. This look like a uniform?”

 

“Yeah, but you’ll call them,” snaps another one by an alley, “You’re _with_ them.”

 

“I’m not, I’m,” Peter is not especially happy with the comparison, but he can’t exactly blame them. He isn’t an agent of the government like the Avengers and the Fantastic Four are, but not everyone is aware of that. There’s a lot of mixed information, and even though he’s technically more of a vigilante, heroes tend to be bound by the law. “I won’t call the police.”

 

“Probably already did,” the higher pitched voice chimes in, a young woman, Peter thinks. “We’re gonna need to move before they move us.”

 

“No, I didn’t,” Peter insists. “The police don’t need to get involved.”

 

“Yeah, right,” she hisses.

 

“Really,” Peter tells them again. “I just didn’t want you to steal.”

 

“Yeah, well, I’m hungry,” the man who had been reading to steal says. More like a boy, Peter corrects himself - he’s probably not any older than Peter is. “You gonna feed me, Spider-man?”

 

“Well -”

 

“How ‘bout my kids?” He yanks his thumb back toward one of the cars. Sure enough, Peter hears at least three young, scared voices less than a mile away.

 

“You were going to be caught,” Peter sighs.

 

“Thanks to _you_.”

 

“I’m not as bad as all that,” Peter tells him, though he can’t help but feel guilty.

 

He tries to only call the police on violent offenders these days, but in the past he’d definitely tied up any petty criminal he found and left them for the police. Being discerning wasn’t easy in the least, but Peter definitely hesitated when it came to low level non-violent crimes.

 

The police officers who had taken him in had not been kind, though they hadn’t exactly roughed him up either. The police had been homophobic, transphobic, misogynist, and they’d moved him around in a way that would have bruised a normal person, but they’d also found Peter off-putting enough to leave him alone most of the time. The guards in the prison had been worse, but then, they had less oversight, and the people in their power were _barely_ considered human.

 

It wasn’t as though he had grown up trusting the police implicitly. He was poor, and had known families who lost people because a police officer had been racist and trigger happy. But he also knew police officers who were doing their best to do what was right, and that was what he’d always tried to do too. Before prison, he’d been naive enough to believe police officers were in place to help ensure that justice was served, not just to enforce the rules imposed by their rich overlords.

 

The way the homeless were treated overall was a fair indicator of what the police were utilized for, despite what their individual good intentions might have been.

 

“Listen, I won’t call the cops, and I’ll be right back with food,” Peter insists, “Trust me.”

 

From there, he finds the closest fast food place around. He orders as much as he can with the cash that he has on him, which isn’t much, but he doesn’t want that large a purchase recorded on his card. Next time, he’ll have to pull out more while he’s in his civvies.

 

“Just. Don’t tell the papers?” Peter asks after he hands the bags to an older man, who starts passing things around.

 

Eyes grow shifty, and he realizes how asking to keep quiet about a handout may have sounded to them. There were definitely people out there that did charitable things for secret, heinous reasons.

 

“What do you want in return?” someone asks.

 

Peter turns to look at him. Half of his face is burned and he’s missing a leg, leaning against the side of a building and peering at Peter suspiciously. He reminds Peter a little bit of Wade.

 

“Nothing,” Peter tells them, backing up, “And I can’t stop you from going to the papers, but it’ll just be harder for me. They don’t like me much. I’ll be back as soon. I’m - I’m sorry it isn’t more.”

 

He webs himself up onto the overpass and then springs off of it, casting another onto a nearby building and pitching himself onto the next wide avenue.

 

His isn’t exactly proud of himself for helping pass notes between criminals, even if it isn’t technically illegal, especially since he has no way of knowing if someone is being hurt with the information he provides. Weasel insists it’s nothing as nefarious as all that, and Peter trusts him to an extent, but he can’t know everything about his clients.

 

This feels good. This feels worth it. Going back to university is a distant dream, and he can still save up for that too. But this makes a difference here and now, and not just for him.

  


Spider-man doesn’t end up in the papers. Peter goes back the next night with a ton of pizza.  

 

He sticks around long enough for a couple of the younger kids to meet him, but he still doesn’t feel entirely welcome. It feels like hanging around after doing his ‘good deed’ is waiting for thanks, or expecting them to perform in some way. The last thing he wants is to be one of the people who throw money at the issue to feel a little less guilty, while whispering ‘ _homeless’_ like it’s bad word.

 

So he swings away to continue his patrol, letting them enjoy their meal in peace.

  


On Peter’s days off he tends to stay out late patrolling, sleep in, do a few chores while May works - she’s only had the same day off twice - and catch up on reading. It’s become pretty standard for him to show up at Hellhouse early a few days a week just to get some quiet, simply because the walls are thicker than his apartment building. Rooftops are nice when he’s Spider-man, but Peter Parker doesn’t have much of an excuse to be there in the daytime.

 

Sometimes, Wade is there, and they chat or play card games or even just sit quietly in the other’s presence, though Wade makes sure not catch him off guard. Wade is a little weird and not exactly mentally stable, so Peter extends the same courtesy to him. He still feels pretty bad about almost ‘un-aliving’ Wade, as the mercenary likes to call it, but they don’t bring it up.

 

Instead, Wade listens when Peter rambles about bioengineering and in turn he likes to tell long stories that either paint him as a badass or a dumbass.

 

Most of the time, it’s both.

 

Peter had caught glimpses while eavesdropping that first night, but it turns out that Wade is even more talkative when he knows he has someone’s ear. Peter doesn’t mind, as long as he’s not in the middle of reading something. The rambling can actually be pretty soothing, and it’s not like Wade can’t take a break and enjoy the quiet if Peter gets overstimulated.

 

Today is different.

 

Peter walks in early and finds someone else waiting there, a woman he’s never seen before in his life. She’s dark haired and beautiful, dressed in a black suit

 

His spidey sense pings like crazy.

 

“Oh, hello,” he greets her, channeling his tension into a nervous pitch. It’s pretty easy, because she is genuinely terrifying. She barely moves from where she’s sitting on a stool when he approaches, her legs crossed languidly. Peter shifts his bag on his shoulder and makes himself a bit smaller.

 

“Hello,” she answers, slow and quiet. “You’re not Deadpool.”

 

She drags her gaze down him and he swallows.

 

“Er, no,” he agrees, opening his mouth to ask who ‘Deadpool’ is, when he hears the door open behind him. He considers turning to look, but his spidey sense doesn’t go off in that direction, so he keeps his eyes on the woman instead. Because his brain is buzzing with that _‘danger’_ tone.

 

“Sorry, baby boy, I didn’t know you were coming in today.”

 

“Oh, it’s fine, I can go,” Peter offers, more than ready to be out of this room.

 

“No, no, it’s fine, we can go somewhere else! This is your zone out zone, I’m just a visitor!” Wade rubs the back of his neck as he comes into Peter’s view. “We should exchange numbers or something so we can coordinate! Also, so we can get brunch! I’ve been _dying_ to get brunch with you, and as good a cook as Helga is, this place doesn’t serve pancakes for some stupid, no good, terrible reason. That’s how you _know_ it’s hell.”

 

“Yeah, we should do that. Exchange numbers, I mean. Next time.” Peter agrees, letting his gaze dart to Wade briefly before scooting back over to his

 

“Are you going to introduce me to your friend, Deadpool?” the woman asks, standing up in an easy, elegant motion and stepping closer. It takes willpower for Peter not to take a step back.

 

“This is Mouse, he works at this here establishment. Mouse, this is -” Wade hesitates, and Peter wonders if he isn’t sure what her name is, or what alias to use. It probably doesn’t matter.

 

“Maki Matsumoto,” she introduces herself, holding out her hand for Peter.

 

He doesn’t want to take it, but he wants to be openly rude even less. If this woman really is as significant of a threat as his spidey sense seems to think, he doesn’t want her to know that he’s distrustful of her for no apparent reason.

 

“Like Deadpool said,” Peter says, using the pseudonym for the first time. He can feel Wade stiffen a little bit beside him, almost imperceptibly. “I’m Mouse. I work here. Just a dishy passing through, but it sure is nice to meet you, Ms. Matsumoto.”

 

“Likewise.” She releases his hand, then cuts her eyes at Wade. “Shall we go?”

 

“Yessum!”

 

Wade looks at him over his shoulder as they leave through the front door and waves back at him shyly, the eyes of his mask doing a sad puppy thing that Peter doesn’t have the patience for right now. He waves back anyway, and watches them go through the door. When Maki is gone, his senses finally stop screaming at him, his shoulders dropping.

 

He feels sick to his stomach and disappointed, which is ...ridiculous.

 

Peter _knows_ it’s ridiculous. Peter _knows_ where he works and the type of people that frequent here and what they do and he even, in his way, helps them do it.

 

It’s rare for a patron at Hellhouse to inspire genuine fear in him the way Jimmy and Maki have, in more than three months now. ( _She’s not even a customer, she was here just to meet with Wade_ , he reminds himself.) It’s not like he’s surrounded by people who enjoy hurting innocent people, most of the mercenaries he’s met are just broken and desperate people.

 

Even Wade, disconcerting as it may have been to see him at work.

 

This just serves as a reminder that he’s a position of power here, in a way. It may not be the kind he wants to have, but it’s what he has. If he can use his position here to his advantage, if he stop someone like Jimmy, he has an obligation to do so.

  


It’s not long before Weasel walks in to start the day. Peter doesn’t bother looking up, since they never exchange pleasantries before work; Weasel considers this early morning.

 

Weasel heads for his office and then stops short, looking at Peter.

 

“What happened?” Weasel demands. It’s so intense and unexpectedly sober that it surprises both of them. Immediately after he realizes it, Weasel scowls, crosses his arms, and rolls his eyes.“ _What_ , someone take a shit in the sink or something? Dog eat your homework?”

 

“...I don’t have homework, I’m not in school.”

 

“Fine, you drop a book in a puddle or something? Because that’s the kind of face you have on.”

 

“I don’t have a face on,” Peter’s brow furrows. “This is my normal face.”

 

“ _Nope_. You look like Bill Nye was spotted in a coffee shop nearby and you just missed him.”

 

Peter raises his eyebrows.

 

“You look like Carl Sagan came back from the dead to give one last lecture but they sold out.”

 

Peter feels a reluctant smile tugging at his mouth.

 

“You look like Bruce Banner just made an announcement that he’s retired from science.”

 

Peter snorts. “From just, _all of science?_ ”

 

“Don’t get critical with me, it’s _your_ face. I’m just the messenger.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> so i didn't know i had panic attacks until a couple years ago even though i've probably had them since i was a teenager, because mental health isn't a thing people talk about with kids and panic attacks are very dramatic in movies when they are really different for everyone, so it was important for me to write about that
> 
> i enjoyed writing this chapter a lot, i hope you guys enjoyed reading it! lemme know what you think, k? <3


	5. bad iron

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> cold iron doesn't bend

 “Helga, I swear, if you keep sending me home with food -”

 

She raises her eyebrows at him, staring expectantly.

 

“- I’m going to be extremely well fed and happy about it,” Peter finishes with a cheeky grin, popping a fry into his mouth.

 

She nods as if satisfied and turns back to wiping up her station. Peter finishes off the dishes and stretches until his back cracks. He heads out to do one last check, and to pick up the messages waiting for him in by the register.

 

He finishes off his fries on a rooftop a few miles away before delivering the notes.

 

The last few months have been good for him, physically.

 

He’s beginning to fill out now that he’s being fed by Helga and is taking a higher dose of testosterone, thanks to actually being able to afford a specialist.

 

He’s hardly going to go to the doctor regularly - he hates it, and he definitely doesn’t need it - but it was handy to get on the right track physically. Eating regularly has also helped him fill out his new spider suit, which is thanks to Helga and his own ever growing culinary prowess. Prison definitely hadn’t been meeting his caloric intake needs.

 

Five months into working at Hellhouse and things are going as well as can be expected.

 

He’s even managed to listen in on a few of the worse customer’s plans and intervene as Spider-man without any backlash, though Jimmy hasn’t been coming around as much lately. Not that he did much before, he was hardly a regular, _thank god,_ but there had been a distinct absence of him around the bar. Peter had been actively listening for him.

 

Maki, however, had been back a couple times, though she never stuck around long. After they’d left the bar together, Peter had brought her up while playing cards with Wade before his shift.

 

“Why, you want her number or something, Mouse? That your type? Smokin’ and scary as fuck?”

 

Peter had rolled his eyes, “Pretty sure she’s out of my league.”

 

“Got it all twisted ‘round, Mouse,” Wade had assured him, “She’s bad news.”

 

“Then why are you hanging around her?”

 

Wade regards him calmly and draws a card.

 

“‘Cause I’m bad news too.”

 

“Whatever. You’re nothing like her.”

“You sure?”

 

“Yeah, I am,” Peter had told him, sounding more confident than he felt about the matter. Wade was something of a friend now, even if it was a pretty casual relationship. Peter kept waiting to meet him while he was Spider-man, as Deadpool, but it hadn’t happened yet.

 

“You got a danger meter in that noggin of yours along without all that science?”

 

“Nah, just common sense. Stop avoiding the question.”

 

“...She’s my lawyer. No biggie.”

 

“Your lawyer? Are you in trouble, or something?”

 

“Oh, I’m sure it’s nothing, no trouble I can’t handle, honey.” Wade had evaded him again, and had rambled in a different direction whenever Peter had tried to steer back that way. “Speaking of honey, honey, I’m sure you know about the bees dying out? Heard one of the other mercs, a vegan if you can believe it, _do the least harm possible my ass,_ but I guess it’s just for animals? Anyway, he said there’s this _bee free_ honey made out a like, apples and shit! Not literal shit, that’d taste nasty, but I’m not sure if it’s worth savin’ the bees, since no matter what we do we’ll either be drowned in a flood or burned in a fire or swallowed in a earthquake like San Fransisco -”

 

“Might be a snowstorm, don’t forget snow storms,” Peter tacks on, trying to move past the bubble of hurt swelling beneath his ribs.

 

“Ooooh, great chance for a segway.”

 

“What.”

 

“Huh?”

 

Just another thing Peter never gets an answer for.

 

The news predicts a snowstorm the very next week.

 

Time goes on, a handful of days, exchanging snark-isms with Weasel and Wade (as well as playful conversation, nothing too deep, if they can help it) and spending as much time with May as possible. He doesn’t see Jimmy or Maki again, and isn’t sure whether he should be frustrated or relieved by it. He decides on something in the middle and tries to move on.

 

A couple weeks before Thanksgiving, Peter finally manages to get his paperwork done and his new ID taken care of. He passes it to Weasel without a word exchanged and gets it back without so much as a ‘congrats’, though he does call him “Pete” just once before it’s back to “Mouse”.

 

A simple thing, correcting a mistake in the paperwork.

 

It feels good. Just not as good as he’d expected.

 

Something about this winter is different, and Peter feels something in him going cold along with the temperature. He isn’t particularly looking forward to the Holidays, even though he has money to buy himself and May more than usual. He doesn’t want to do that too much and give away the extra disposable income that he’s keeping from her.

 

His efforts as Spider-man are going as well as can be expected, even if the papers don’t appreciate him. That’s fine, he’s used to that, and he thinks he’s been doing more good than he has in a long while. But he also sees more suffering than usual, more desperation, sees children and teenagers huddling up around garbage can fires and young women getting out of cars too expensive for this part of town. Some young men, too.

 

He brings blankets and hot chocolate in addition to the dinner he brings a few times a week. He doesn’t even really keep track of the money spends on them, just whatever makes him feel less guilty, and then he feels selfish, and guilty about that too.

 

He helps serve soup in the soup kitchen at the LGBT center, and as Thanksgiving approaches, he greets new faces that have never been there before and will probably disappear as soon as the new year starts. One of the newcomers finds out he’s obligated to be there and sneers at him whenever he walks in and doesn’t listen to anything he has to offer.

 

Camila, the kitchen manager and a lovely Portuguese trans woman, tells him not to sweat it, but he can’t shake the thought that he _hadn’t_ ever had time for this sort of thing before prison.

 

Aunt May is a treasure, and he adores spending time with her. They go on walks, eat as many meals together as possible, watch TV shows, and have long chats about their work days.

 

She keeps mentioning school, and he humors her, but he’s already lost so much time - more than a year now - and well, she’s not getting any younger.

 

What does she have, five more years of full-time work? Ten?

 

Everyone gets sick these days, especially the poor, and is Peter really going to waste money on a degree that he might have to drop out of again anyway? If he could even qualify to get into ESU again, his scholarship and internship opportunities would be next to nothing.

 

He might be able to get a student loan, but without those steps up into high paying positions at distinguished companies, what were the chances he’d be able to pay it off in his lifetime?

 

 _Especially_ with a criminal record.

 

So he takes in the joy where he can, and it isn’t so bad. He passes notes without incident and fights crime after. The people he feeds have been learning to trust him, enough that he sometimes sticks around to play with the kids who squeal whenever he arrive, or pretend spar with the few preteens that try not to show how cool they think he is.

 

“Saw something the other day you might be interested in, Spider-man,” a teenage girl says to him one evening, one of the blankets he’d passed around draped over her shoulders.

 

“Oh,” Peter answers, surprised. She’s not one of the people who have spoken to him before, and even now she doesn’t seem super thrilled about it. “Really? Are you offering to share?”

 

“Would I have brought it up otherwise?” she scowls.

 

“Maybe,” Peter grins, and tries to make it show in his voice, scratching the back of his head. “You guys like to talk shit about me to my face a lot.”

 

She snorts, “That bother you?”

 

Peter makes a sweeping gesture. “Nah, that’s what friends do.”

 

“Wouldn’t say I’m your friend,” she shrugs, “but you know what they say. See something, say something. Except the police don’t take us seriously, so.”

 

Peter is suddenly sucker punched in the gut. Metaphorically.

 

“Gotcha,” he stands a little straighter to compensate. She doesn’t want his pity. “Okay, tell me about what you saw. I’ll try to help.”

 

She turns and points in the direction of a flickering streetlight. Plenty of them are flickering, since the city doesn’t bother to change them on this side of time, but this one happens to be where she happens to be indicating at the moment.

 

Peter makes a mental note to figure out how hard it is to change street lamp bulbs.

 

“Over there is the body of some guy, a monster of some kind, or…sorry,” she mumbles and shoves her hands in her pockets. Gloves, next, he thinks.“A mutant, I guess.”

 

Right, street lamps and gloves completely fly from his mind.

 

“A _body?_ ”

 

“Yeah. It’s getting colder, so we went to go check on him to see if he was getting hypothermia, which is what the cops thought when we called them.”

 

“When did you make that call?”

 

“This morning.”

 

Peter crosses his arms to keep from hunching over. He feels the cold hand that’s wound itself around his ribs over the course of the last few months (longer, if he really wants to think about it, maybe the day of his arrest, or the day Ben died, or -) coils a little more intricately in him.

 

“And they still haven’t come to check it out?”

 

“What do you think?”

 

“Right, that’s why you’re telling me, sorry,” Peter sighs. “What makes you think he’s a mutant?”

 

“It’s pretty, y’know, visible,” she cringes. “He has wings, and like, a freaky mouth.”

 

“Yeah, that’ll do it. I’ll go check it out. He’s in the alley?”

 

She nods, and he swings off in that direction. He catches himself on the wall of the alley and skitters closer, not wanting to get too close too soon. The odor hits him first, even in the cold, and he holds his breath as he creeps further still toward the shadow of a lump on the ground.

 

The coat the body is wearing is familiar.

 

Peter doesn’t want to disturb the crime scene, so he moves along the wall until he’s at the right angle to see the dead man’s face. The ‘freaky’ mouth is immediately apparent, _mandibles -_

 

_Jimmy?_

 

He lowers himself onto the ground carefully, sure not to disturb anything. The pool of blood stretches almost to the other side of the alley before it stops, frozen over now.

 

He feels sick, but he doesn’t think he’s a risk to follow through with the feeling.

 

“You okay, Spider-man?”

 

He jumps a little and is immediately irritated with himself. His informant is at the mouth of the alley. What gave it away? Was he holding himself too still? He forces his shoulders to stoop into a semblance of relaxation.

 

 _Stay there, I said,_ Peter thinks, mildly irritated.

 

“Of course,” he assures her, with slightly more gusto than necessary. “I’ll get the cops here to process this, you don’t have to worry about it anymore. In fact, you guys might want to settle in for the night soon, I don’t want anyone messing with you or thinking this is your fault.”

 

She tilts her head, raising her brows. “You don’t think it could be?”

 

“Doubtful.”

 

“What makes you think so?”

 

“Most murderers don’t lead you to their victim’s body. There’s no good reason for that.”

 

“I guess.”

 

“Besides that, you said yourself, he’s a mutant. He'd he difficult to take down."

 

Her having to correct her language regarding mutants means she probably isn’t one. Or, Peter figures, she’s a really good liar. But he doesn’t sense any danger coming from her either.

 

“Aren’t _you_ a mutant?”

 

“Sure.”

 

“You said ‘them’, not ‘us’.”

 

“It’s a long story, and I’m afraid it’s classified information.”

 

She rolls her eyes.  

 

“Yeah, okay, Spider-man. Keep your secrets,” She hesitates. “I’m Mabel, by the way.”

 

“Nice to meet you, Mabel. Thanks again,” Peter tells her, and waits until she’s back over with the rest of the group before he turns back to the crime scene.

 

Peter doesn’t tell her about the third reason. The guy hadn’t been shot with a gun or bludgeoned or anything like that - two small slivers of metal, a similar to those that came in disposable razors, were lodged into the man’s throat. They were barely visible, deep as they were, and Peter had a hunch there were more embedded deeper beneath the blood.

 

He’d bled out quickly, through his jugular, and if he had any type of healing factor to go along with his mandibles and wings, it hadn’t been quick enough to keep up.

 

Peter called the police and searched the scene for clues. He found a razor that had apparently missed its target and took a picture of it before he left.

 

They were too small to fully grip in hand, only about an inch in length and perhaps an eighth of an inch thick. For them to have hit Jimmy and sunk deep enough to kill him, it was hard to believe someone had gotten that close and handled a razor that small into him, let alone _multiple_. Possible, but Jimmy was in the mob and there had clearly been a struggle. He wouldn’t have let someone that close to him for long, and there were no signs of restraint.

 

As odd as it was, the most likely thing might be that they had been _thrown_.

 

The night grows more cold and bitter and so does Peter’s disposition. The police don’t get there until morning, and every hour that passes he gets more quietly furious, until it feels like it’s buzzing beneath his skin constantly.

 

He texts May that he’s sleeping at Hellhouse that night. He’s done that before, on nights when he’d wanted to keep patrolling, and he’s pretty sure she just thinks he’s seeing someone and sleeping over. It’s a good cover.

 

They send two officers, and at that point, everything is covered in a fine sheet of snow. Including Peter, where he’s been curled up in the corner of the alley since 2AM. They don’t mess with any of of Peter’s friends sleeping in boxes or cars, which he can’t bring himself to be happy about at this point, and he blames that on the cold.

 

One of the officers grumbles, “Good riddance,” as Jimmy is carted away.

 

Whether he means because he’s a criminal or because he’s a mutant, Peter doesn’t know. Either would make sense for the NYPD that Peter knows.

 

He doesn’t fully disagree, not for the same reasons, but he feels shitty about it just the same.

 

Jimmy was one less problem for Peter and Hellhouse, but his murderer was still out there, and who knew what their motives were? Even if they were some kind of Punisher-type vigilante, rather than a murderer who _happened_ to kill a terrible person, Peter was on his guard. He’d have to do more research and hope no more bodies turned up in the meantime.

 

When he gets to Hellhouse, five hours early, Wade isn’t there and Peter is grateful for it, for once. He takes a shot of whiskey to warm himself up, decides it’s gross, then falls asleep in the corner booth with his backpack tucked under his head.

 

There are only two days recovery between finding Jimmy’s body and his next stressful encounter, though this one is slightly more light-hearted.

 

Peter is perched on the edge of a rooftop, scouting for warehouses to break into when the storm gets here. He’s got a week before the temperature drops so low that his friends are at risk to freeze to death, and he’s hoping to find a place as soon as tomorrow. There are overflow shelters being set up, but they never account for as many people as they need to, and the more time he spends with them, the more responsible he feels.

 

His spidey sense tingles, though not with urgency. He hears the smooth whir of moving tech, and he realizes who he’s about to meet a second before he sweeps up to hover in front of him.

 

“What.”

 

Iron Man’s mask stares back at him.

 

“Kind of an underwhelming welcome, but okay.”

 

“Sorry,” Peter drawls, twisting his wrist in fancy wave. “I meant, hear ye, to what to I owe the monumental pleasure of your attention, oh glorious Man of Iron?”

 

“A little archaic, but better,” Stark says. “I thought we were on good terms, Spider-man. Why are you talking like you’re a passive aggressive Thor?”

 

“We aren’t really on any terms,” Peter points out. “I’m not being passive aggressive, I’m just tired and a little surprised to see you. So, yeah. Sup?”

 

“Straight to business, huh, aren’t you supposed to be like, playful or something? I was pretty sure that you were playful before your hiatus. You know, friendly neighboring and such.”

 

Peter narrows his eyes.

 

“You implying I’m not the original?”

 

“Are you?” Stark asks, a little too lightly to be genuine.

 

It’s not like he wanted desperately to work for this guy only to have the chance ripped away from him and his entire reputation stained with either contempt or pity. Stark probably didn’t even know who Peter Parker was anymore, just a guy in the running for being an intern. Probably just a name in a stack of files that an assistant had thrown out as soon as he was no longer eligible.

 

_Watch it, Peter, your bitterness is showing._

 

Weirdly enough, he hears Wade’s voice chiming in with an enthusiastic, _Oh! Your bits are showing? Oooh, where? Count me in!_

 

“Yeah, I am,” Peter confirms. “Not sure why it matters to you though.”

 

“It doesn’t,” Stark answers, nonchalant. “I could care less. Seems like you’re doing an alright job, even if you’re not the last guy. My analysis says you move the same, seem to have the same abilities, but you never know for sure.”

 

“Could be a Spider-man from another universe,” Peter suggest, again feeling like maybe Wade is rubbing off on him too much. It does calm the paranoia that creeps up his spine at the idea of Tony fucking Stark analyzing his movements.

 

“...Are you?” Stark asks again, this time a little more emphatically.

 

Peter scoffs. “Nope, same old me.”

 

“New digs though.”

 

“You like?”

 

“Sure. It’s sleek.”

 

“Thanks.”

 

“Steve prefers the red and blue, of course, but you can’t fix tacky.”

 

“Captain America has an opinion on my suit design?” Peter laughs at the ridiculous nature of it. “I think his suit is classy, if you’re just passing things along.”

 

“I’ll let him know,” Stark says flatly. “I have more opinions on your suit. Tons, actually, if you want to come by the tower some time to check them out.”

 

_What._

 

Peter has the decency not to say it out loud this time.

 

“Trying to take me home already?” Peter sasses instead, trying not to show that he’s legitimately floored by the idea that Iron Man might have made him suit accessories, maybe even a whole prototype - crap, he really can’t afford to be a fanboy right now. “It’ll take more than flattery, you know. At least a couple dinners. Word around town is you’re _loaded._ I’m not cheap.”

 

“Pretty sure I just offered you a new suit, actually. That’s priceless.”

 

Peter narrows his eyes. “And why are you trying to get me into your phallic fortress, anyway?”

 

“ _Phallic,_ ” Stark repeats distastefully. “Ugh. No. Alright, well, that does bring me to the reason I’m here and wanted to make sure you were the real deal.”

 

“Uh huh. Go on.”

 

“SHIELD wants to bring you in. They sent me to talk to you.”

 

Peter jerks back a little.

 

“What, _why_?”

 

“Hell if I know, I’m not a fan of this persuasive shtick. Probably because they think you’re smart, since they know you make your webs yourself. Scientist to scientist? I dunno, you could outsource -”

 

“No, I mean, why do they want to bring me in?” Peter reiterates, trying not to think of the fact that SHIELD was going around taking samples of his webs. “I’m not hurting anyone.”

 

“You’re not beholden to anyone either,” Stark sighs, “Something about vigilantes working outside the law and wanting to be able to protect them and ...like, unify them for a greater cause? You know, that sort of thing.”

 

“For _their_ cause, you mean,” Peter restates, voice lowering.

 

“Figured that might be how you saw it.”

 

“Then you’ll relay a polite ‘no, thank you’ and be on your merry way, I take it.”

 

Peter’s heartbeat is loud and he tries to recite the table of elements to calm down. The last thing he needs is an anxiety attack in front of Tony _fucking Stark_.

 

“I will, but that won’t be the end of it. They’re in the process of filing charges against vigilantes at the moment. They know they can’t really bring you in against your will, so they’re doing it _legit._ ”

 

“But of course,” Peter hisses, “The charges can be dropped if I just turn myself in.”

 

“Oh boy,” Stark exhales audibly. “It’s not all bad, being on a government roster. You get equipment, back up, medical care, even help with housing, if you need it. Have I mentioned the fact that I’d be making a suit for you?”

 

“Sell my soul for tech,” Peter scoffs. “Right.”

 

“Not your soul.”

 

“My identity. Same thing. _That’s_ what they want. I scare them because they can’t control me.”

 

_No one owns me, not the government, not the police, no one. That’s the whole fucking point._

 

Weasel’s voice is as clear as the day he said it.

 

“They’re already in the middle of pressing charges, this isn’t an empty threat,” Stark tells him, with a voice like he’s rubbing his temples. “They’ve already filed against Jessica Jones and Deadpool. You and Daredevil are next on the list.”

 

 _She’s my lawyer._ That’s one mystery solved, even if Wade hadn’t shared it with him.

 

That shouldn’t be as frustrating as it is.

 

“Here’s the thing, Webs. The government is using Deadpool as an example. He’s not _quite_ a vigilante, but he’s close enough to one what with the whole ‘only killing terrible people’ thing he’s got going on, and that’s good enough for the media. They’re going to use his actions to crack down on every vigilante in the city, and from there, the country.”

 

Peter scowls and says through his teeth. “We aren’t doing anything wrong.”

 

“Not technically true, but I agree with you, mostly. Still _doesn’t matter_ . I’m a billionaire, not a _god,_ and Thor isn’t as cool as he thinks he is. Widow is pissed, and Cap isn’t in love with the idea, but they took his bestie in as part of the program, so he’s in for the long hall, the end of the line, whatever. The fact is, we’re nothing compared to the complex system of old money puppeteers that control the majority of the people that make our laws.”

 

Peter crosses his arms over his chest and turns his face away.

 

“That’s depressing.”

 

“That’s life,” Stark shoots back. “Come with me to the tower and we can talk this all over with people who have a little more bedside manner than I do.”

 

“I’m not convinced.”

 

Another sigh. “We don’t have much of a choice in this, Webs.”

 

“Easy for you to say,” Peter shoots back. “you don’t _have_ a secret identity.”

 

“Maybe you shouldn’t either,” Stark snaps. “you ever think of that?”

 

Peter stands up. “Not really up to you.”

 

“You don’t have to be out to everyone, just the core Avengers and probably Fury and Coulson -”

 

Peter uncrosses his arms, opening them wide. “There’s _no_ _way_ you can promise me that. You guys belong to SHIELD, if you know my identity, they will too. Which means any stray HYDRA agent, _any_ other infiltrator will have access to me and my family.”

 

“It doesn’t have to go down like that, Webs.”

 

“You’re not being very reassuring,” Peter sneers, turning his anxiety into anger because wow, is it easier to deal with. Or at least, it makes him feel stronger than straight up _fear_ . “Why’d they send _you_ to do this, anyway?”

 

“I asked the same thing. They wanted to send Steve, but I can fly, and you’re hard to catch.”

 

“He does seems like he’d be better at it.”

 

“Great! Come to the _tower_ and you can talk to _him_.”

 

“No, thanks. Nice try though, really. Tell them I give you a C+ for effort.”

 

“Aw, _c’mon_ -”

 

Peter dives away and slings himself as far away from the area as possible, until the wind rushing in his ears drowns out the sound of his heartbeat. It takes him ages to feel like he’s no longer being followed, and by then he’s calm again, or at least not on the verge of anything as embarrassing as what had happened after elbowing

 

Something is definitely wrong with him. He curls over his knees and hugs them, trying not to to wallow in ...resentment. Whatever this was. It felt sharp and hateful in his stomach, and the hand grows colder and tightens its grip.

 

He only gets five minutes alone before he hears a familiar gate approaching. He supposes it’s better than the alternative; Stark or one of the other Avengers would be worse. He’s still a bit out-socialized for the day, so he doesn’t bother lifting his head as the man approaches.

 

Peter knows he must look sullen, but he does particularly care.

 

“I heard your heartbeat from ten streets over.”

 

Great. He’d suspected some kind of enhanced senses from this guy, but nothing as nuanced as all that. If that was true, his hearing could rival Peter’s.

 

“I didn’t know you could do that.”

 

Whoa, Peter sounded too grumbly, even to his own ears. If he didn’t need to keep his mask on, he might be pulling his hair out.

 

“No,” Daredevil agrees, coming to stand a few feet away. “Now you do.”

 

A thought occurs to him the same way his spidey sense does, and it feels a little betrayed by it, more than a little attacked, actually.

 

“...You knew it was _my_ heartbeat.”

 

Wonderful. Now he’ll have to worry about running into whoever the hell Daredevil is when he’s Peter Parker. Hopefully he’s exaggerating but that isn’t really like him.

 

“That’s right.”

 

“Fucking spectacular.”

 

Peter is expecting some kind of reassurance. Daredevil is like that, always offering advice or at least solace to what he jokingly referred to as his vigilante apprentice. Peter always thought that was overkill, but never corrected him.

 

“You sound different.”

 

“How so?”

 

“I don’t think I’ve ever heard you curse, for one,” Daredevil points out, and Peter rolls his eyes beneath his mask. “You also just sound. Sad?”

 

“I’m not sad,” Peter says, immediate. _I’m pissed,_ he almost adds. _I’m pissed off at everything and I don’t know how to make it stop._

 

It’s a little frightening how true that thought rings in his head, especially in comparison to the lie he speaks at the exact same moment. He’s feeling a lot, all at once. He wants to cry, and that just makes him even more furious at himself.

 

“I just got done talking to Tony Stark,” he tells Daredevil instead, straightening up. “He’s kind of an ass, that’s all.”

 

“Ah,” Daredevil’s voice lowers. “He approached you too, then.”

 

“Yep,” Peter says, popping the ‘p’ to make the whole thing seem lighter than he feels. It just comes off sardonic, despite his efforts.

 

Maybe he’s just like this now.

 

Daredevil’s lips purse briefly, “He is. A bit of an ass. I assume he’s trying to get you to -”

 

Peter’s spidey sense let’s him know someone is approaching and he figures that Daredevil must hear something at the same instant, because he stops talking mid-sentence. Yeah, Peter will have to watch out for that. The idea he might already _know_ is too much to handle right now.

 

He knows the voice of the man who hoists himself onto the roof next way too well.

 

“Wow! _Spidey!_ You have no _idea_ how long I’ve been waiting to meet you!”

 

Both Peter and Daredevil relax a little, Daredevil less than Peter. He doesn’t know that Wade is mostly harmless (well, probably, for now).

 

“Oh, and it’s the other _other_ guy, you’re cool, I guess. But omigee, _Spidey,_ look at you! Even sexier in person, if I may so. Seriously, may I say so? Because, _damn,_ the subtle silvery accents are _unf,_ if you catch my drift, did you make it yourself? The pictures don’t do you justice, at _all,_ but none of the media does, all this fake news plotzing about, y’know? Wait until I tell you all about -”

 

And, well, Peter just. Really _isn’t_ in the mood for this right now. He can’t do it. His brain is going to fizzle out, he’s exhausted, and if he has to listen to Wade talk about how awesome Spider-man is when that’s the opposite of how Peter feels right now, has _been_ feeling, he’s going to lose something. Maybe control, maybe marbles.

 

He doesn’t want to find out, so he ditches them instead.

 

Peter doesn’t even feel guilty about it, and he wonders if he’s starting to build an immunity.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> peter's not doing great, sorry. lots of stuff going on this chapter but i hope it flowed well. got some plot and character stuff moving, though I'm sure there wasn't as much wade as you'd prefer. soon~ <3 
> 
> let me know how you like it, pleeeease.

**Author's Note:**

> i'd love to know your favorite lines, or if any made you laugh ~


End file.
